

> ' » • * • » 
> . . ■ ■ ' > - • . v . •» • v * \ ■ - r ■ >* •- ■» *■ . 1 « •• 3 

... - . • Q * 


- • ’ > *. , : /’ . ■ .* : . • . ?. ;■ ’ ? : • y? \ ,< ' 3 

• • • • ... ^ *. / ' 

; w:. ii 1 ',’ . ’.r, fV? Vv , *r * ? . -I { 

• •' . v ; v • / f *v > * ;* *. • \ r ? :* i. . i ' .* > * ;• > * • > ♦ * * ? ■ > 1 


-.‘ i# -*« v ; 

' ■ V* y « r <\ 













V 


z V><V 


o cS 


,^ s ^ \V^ 5 v ^ v> , 
' ..'' . . -* " 77 . s' 


j 0 o\s'** >,, ‘ ** 

^Vr$ ' ^S7' 


V "% 



s’ .,& 


* i 


^ o v 






/ 1}W/ 

* * * o , C tp \> % » ' * 0 , C %, 

°i\ ^ .Wa v % # ’‘^■ v ^ 

° <£><sr « i\\M/A * ^ ^\> 


^ - - • * <X> 


9? ' 

V v * Y * 0 ^ ^ 




«%* ^ 
s* r# ^ 



.S A 


° c v5 y^> -> 

, ^ ■> ,v - , „> ^ ', „ rr 

& • • >♦ V' ✓ 



\p* 


V <» 


%$ 


^ ^ Cr ° 


$ 


- O 

» ^ ^ °,WM? : ^ ^ l 

9?. " y «'. 1 4 ' <$' %. ' J 0. L+~ .#' C?5 *y 0 . 

* G - - - - - z r « S» ♦ Q<s 






- % # 
° %<sr 


,s s ^ 







cS ^ 
V 5 



"- ss /i — s c< — s /v 

^O 1 


* -y 


^ 6 * 



s ^ 

- ¥> 

“- \d< ,* 

/ ^ l 

°, % J °' y "v^ ' * 0 , %’ J ° • - 
r ° • j§^£/X° 7 f. 

Z r _ cvXX X vr \i/ //L / 

O c5> '■'X. J 

•to oV" * 

,#’ ,, " <*" 777 '' <.'" 7 ^,s-' 

o° v s s *<L r * "%s o° s s 9 * >> f c 




^ 6 . 




V 





o CD 

■ <# ^ - 


2 P s s * * I- . 



« yz/mw » „<; 

^ - <L> 

' 0 * *■ ' < > 

^ V A v Y“ /■ ^ V 

° *%r ^ . 

’ '%' \ 

A° , . V*' A & <*. ''/ .'. s' A u- ^ * 

>' g ° % 



0 * x * \V • '-O, y 0 ♦ X * \V '’Q, 


'fr'Sr - 


« c 3 A. -* 

■ <# ^ % 



r ‘ a\^ 



3 ^ G s'*”',,<^ , '*” S ''fP^ C ’s'*.^ 




c 3 S 

* *? X>s V 

'' ^ <• ■ 

CP^v'1^,% 



O / fX U \ M" 

Jf- ■* (C 

* 5# % * 0 . x* \V 

> - * * 0 „ V * 

&> * r o '*%> ^ «’ 

± v* <y* « ; ^ tP <V 


r # % V*^ipv '% \'qgs?s ^ 

<£y - '* { s s . (y . -v ; s s ^Cr * 



^ r& <, 




"- ^ol 


o 



<v 

o 








■ 























’ • • 






■ 













By J. FENIMORE COOPER 


17 to 27 VaNdeW/vte^ St 

-j'l eV/Yoi\K" 


«*tiUS Ht 


^^^B(Bf0RPTlW5rrrT^oc!cefT!!nT?onTTssue»ffffffveekTy^I3\^iinscnprionf56i)ei^nT)mn~ 
'«rhted 1885, by Ueorgo ilunro-Entered at the Post Office at New York at second class rates.-April 8, ls8! 






MUNRO’S PUBLICATIONS. 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— POCKET EDITION. 


NO. PRICE. 

1 Yolande. By William Black 20 

2 Molly Bawn. By •* The Duchess . 20 
S The Mill on the Floss. By George Eliot 20 

4 Under Two Flags. Bv “ Ouida ” 2C 

5 Admiral’s Ward. By Mrs. Alexander.. 20 

G Portia. By “ The Duchess” 20 

7 P’ile No. li3. By Emile Gaboriau...... 20 

8 East Lvnne. By Mrs. Henry Wood.... 20 

9 Wanda. By “ Ouida ”... ... 20 

10 The Old Curiosity Shop. By Dickens. 20 

11 John Halifax, Gentleman. MissMuIock 20 

12 Other People's Money. By Gaboriau. 20 

13 Eyre’s Acquittal. By Helen B. Mathers 10 

14 Airy Fairy Lilian. By “ The Ductless ” 10 

15 Jane Eyre. By Charlotte Brontd 20 

1G Phyllis. By " The Duchess” 20 

17 The Wooing O’t. Bv Mrs. Alexander.. 15 

18 Shandou Bells. By William Black 20 

19 Her Mother’s Sin. By the Author of 

“ Dora. Thorne ” 10 

20 Within an Inch of His Life. By Emile 

Gaboriau 20 

21 Sunrise. By William Black 20 

22 David Cop perfie’d. Dickens. Yol. I.. 20 
28 David Copperftevi. Dickens. Yol. II. 20 
28 A Princess of Thule. By William Black 20 
24 Pickwick Papers. Dickens. Vol. I... 20 

24 Pickwick Papers. Dickens. Yol. II.. 20 

25 Mrs. Geoffrey. By “ The Duchess ”.. . 20 
28 Monsieur Lecoq. By Gaboriau. Vol. I. 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Gaboriau. Vol. II. 20 

27 Vanity Fair. By William M. Thackeray 20 

28 Ivanhoe. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

29 Beauty’s Daughters. “ The Duchess ” 10 

30 Faith and Unfaith. By “The Duchess” 20 

31 Middlemarch. By George Eliot. 20 

32 The Land Leaguers. Anthony Trollope 20 

33 The Clique of Gold. By Emile Gaboriau 10 

34 Daniel Deronda. By George Eliot ... 30 

35 Lady Audley’s Secret. Miss Braddon 20 

36 Adam Bede By George Eliot „20 

37 Nicholas Nickleby. By Charles Dickens £.0 

38 The Widow Lerouge. By Gaboriau.. 20 

39 In Silk Attire. By William Black. . . . ‘ 20 

40 The Last Days of Pompeii. By Sir E. 

Bui wer Ly tton ................. 20 

41 Oliver Twist. By Charles Dickens .. .. 15 

42 Romola. By George Eliot 20 

43 The Mystery of Orcival. Gaboriau.... 20 

44 Macleod of Dare. By William Black. . 20 

45 A Little Pilgrim. By Mrs. Oliphant. .. 10 

46 Very Hard Cash. By Charles Reade.. 20 

47 Altiora Peto. By Laurence Oliphant.. 20 

48 Thicker Than Water. By James Payn. 20 

49 That Beautiful Wretch.- By Black. .. 20 

50 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. 

By William Black 20 

51 Dora Thorne. By the Author of “ Her 

Mother’s Sin” 20 

52 The New Magdalen. By Wilkie Collins. 10 

53 The Story of Ida. By Francesca 10 

54 A Broken Wedding-Ring. By the Au- 

thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 

65 The Three Guardsmen. By Dumas. ... 20 
f>6 Phantom Fortune. Miss Braddon.... 20 
£7 Shirley. By Charlotte Brontb 20 


NO. PRICE. 

58 By the Gate of the Sea. D. C. Murray 10 

59 Vice Versa. By F. Anstey 20 

60 The Last of the Mohicans. Cooper. . 20 

61 Charlotte Temple. By Mrs. Rowson 10 

62 The Executor. By Mrs. Alexander.. 20 

63 The Spy. By J. Pen mi ore Cooper. . . 20 

64 A Maiden Fair. By Charles Gibbon . . 10 

65 Back to the Old Home. By M. C. Hay 10 

66 The Romance of a Poor Young Man. 


By Octave Feuillet 10 

67 Lorna Doone. By R. D. Blackmore. . 30 

68 A Queen A mongst Women. By the 

Author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

69 Madolin s Lover. By the Author of 

“Dora Thorne 20 

70 White Wings. By William Black . .. 10 

71 A Struggle for Fame. Mrs. Riddell.. 20 

72 Old MyddeJ ton’s Money. By M , C. Hay 20 

73 Redeemed by Love. By the Author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

74 Aurora Floyd. By Miss M.E. Braddon 20 

75 Twenty Years After. By Dumas... 20 

76 Wife in Name Only. By the Author of 

“Dora Thorne” 20 

77 A Tale of Two Cities. By Dickens. ... 15 

78 Madcap Violet. By William Black... 20 

79 Wedded and Parted. By the Author 

of “ Dora Thorne 10 

80 June. By Mrs. Forrester 20 


81 A Daughter of Heth. By Wm, Black. 20 

82 Sealed Lips. By F. Du Boisgobey. . . 20 

83 A Strange Story. Bulwer Lytton. . . . 20 

84 Hard Times. By Charles Dickens. . . 10 

85 A Sea Queen. By W. Clark Russell.. 20 


86 Belinda. By Rlioda Broughton 20 

37 Dick Sand ; or, A Captain at Fifteen. 

By Jules Verne 20 

88 The Privateersman. Captain Marryat 20 

89 The Red Eric. By R. M. Ballantyne. 10 

90 Ernest Maltravers. Bulwer Lytton . . 20 

91 Barnaby Rudge. B.y Charles Dickens. 20 


, 92 Lord Lynne’s Choice. By the Author 

of “Dora Thorne ” 10 

93 Anthony Trollope's Autobiography.. 20 

94 Little Do rrit. By Charles Dickens. .. 30 

95 The Fire Brigade. R. M. Ballantyne 10 

96 Erling the Bold. By R.M. Ballantyne 10 

97 All in a Garden Fair. Walter Besant . . <S.O 

98 A Woman-Hater. By Charles Reade. 15 

99 Barbara's HistoPy. A. B. Edwards. . . 20 

100 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas. By 

Jules Verne 20 

101 Second Thoughts. Rlioda Broughton 20 

102 The Moonstone. By Wilkie Collins.. . 15 

103 Rose Fleming. By Dora Russell 10 

104 The Coral Pin. By F. Du Boisgobey. 30 

105 A Noble W ife. By John Saunders. . . 20 

106 Bleak House. By Charles Dickens. . . 40 

107 Dombey and Son. Charles Dickens. . 40 

108 The Cricket o the Hearth, and Doctor 


Marigold. By Charles Dickens. ... 10 

109 Little Loo. By W. Clark Russell 20 

110 Under the Red Flag. By Miss Braddon 10 

111 The Little School-Master Mark. By 

J. H. Shorthouse ID 

112 The Waters of Marah. By John HiU 2J 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. — Pocket Edition 


NO. PRICE. 

113 Mrs. Carr’s Companion. By M. 

G. Wightwick 10 

114 Some of Our Girls. By Mrs. 

C. J. Eiloart 20 

115 Diamond Cut Diamond. By T. 

Adolphus Trollope 10 

110 Moths. By“Ouida” 20 

117 A Tale of the Shore and Ocean. 

By W. H. G. Kingston 20 

118 Loys, Lord Berresford. and Eric 

Dering. By “ The Duchess ” . 10 

119 Monica, and A Rose Distill’d. 

By “ The Duchess ” 10 

120 Tom Brown’s School Days at 

Rugby. By Thomas Hughes 29 

121 Maid of Athens. By Justin Mc- 

Carthy 

122 lone Stewart. By Mrs. E. Lynn 

Linton 20 

123 Sweet is True Love. By “ The 

Duchess” 10 

124 Three Feathers. By William 

Black 20 

125 The Monarch of Mincing Lane. 

By William Black 20 

126 Kilmeny. By William Black. . . 20 

127 Adrian Bright. By Mrs. Caddy 20 

128 Afternoon, and Other Sketches. 

By “ Ouida ” 10 

129 Rossmoyne. By “ The Duch- 

ess ” 10 

130 The Last of the Barons. By 

Sir E. Bulwer Lytton 40 

131 Our Mutual Friend. By Charles 

Dickens 40 

132 Master Humphrey's Clock. By 

Charles Dickens 10 

133 Peter the Whaler. By W. H. G. 

Kingston 10 

134 The Witching Hour. By “ The 

Duchess” 10 

135 A Great Heiress. By R. E. Fran- 

cillon 10 

13C “ That Last Rehearsal.” By 
“ The Duchess ” 10 

137 Uncle Jack. By Walter Besant 10 

138 Green Pastures and Piccadilly. 

By William Black 20 

139 The Romantic Adventures of a 

Milkmaid. By Thomas Hardy 10 

140 A Glorious Fortune. By Walter 

Besant 10 

141 She Loved Him! By Annie 

Thomas 10 

142 -Jenifer. By Annie Thomas 20 

143 One False, Both Fair. J. B. 

Harwood 20 

144 Promises of Marriage. By 

Emile Gaboriau 10 

145 “ Storm-Beaten God and The 

Man. By Robert Buchanan.. 20 

146 Love Finds the Way. By Walter 

Besant and James Rice 10 

147 Rachel Ray. By Anthony Trol- 

lope. 20 

148 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms. 

. By the author of ” Dora 

Thorne” 10 

Q) 


NO. PRICE. 

149 The Captain’s Daughter. From 

the Russian of Pushkin 10 

150 For Himself Alone. By T. W. 

Speight 10 

151 The Ducie Diamonds. By C. 

Blatherwick 10 

152 The Uncommercial Traveler. 

By Charles Dickens 20 

io3 The Golden Calf. By MissM. E. 

Braddon 20 

154 Annan Water. By Robert Bu- 

chanan 20 

155 Lady Muriel’s Secret. By Jean 

Middlemas 20 

156 “ For a Dream's Sake.” By Mrs. 

Herbert Martin 20 

157 Milly’s Hero. By F. AV. Robin- 

son 20 

158 The Starling. By Norman Mac- 

leod, D.D 10 

159 A Moment of Madness, and 

Other Stories. By Florence 
Marryat 10 

160 Her Gentle Deeds. By Sarah 

Tytier. . 10 

161 The Lady of Lyons. Founded 

on the Play of that title by 
Lord Lytton 10 

162 Eugene Aram. By Sir E. Bul- 

wer Lytton...! 20 

163 Winifred Power. By Joyce Dar- 

rell 20 

164 Leila ; or, The Siege of Grenada. 

By Sir E. Bulwer Lytton. . . .'. 10 

165 The History of Henry Esmond. 

By William Makepeace/Thack- 
eray > 20 

166 Moonshine and Marguerites. By 

” The Duchess ” 10 

167 Heart and Scieuce. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

168 No Thoroughfare. By Charles 

Dickens and Wilkie Collins. .. 10 

169 The Haunted Man. By Charles 

Dickens 10 

170 A Great Treason. By Mary 

Hoppus 30 


171 Fortune’s Wheel, and Other 

Stories. By “ The Duchess ” 10 

172 “ Golden Girls.” By Alan Muir 20 

173 The Foreigners. By Eleanor C. 

Price 20 

174 Under a Ban. By Mrs. Lodge. . 20 

175 Love’s Random Shot, and Other 

Stories. By Wilkie Collins... 10 

176 An April Day. By Philippa P. 

Jephson 10 

177 Salem Chapel. By Mrs.Oliphant 20 

178 More Leaves from the Journal 

of a Life in the Highlands. By 
Queen Victoria 10 

179 Little Make-Believe. By B. L. 

Farjeon 10 

180 Round the Galley Fire. By W. 

Clark Russell 10 

181 The New Abelard. By Robert 

Buchanan 10 

182 The Millionaire. A Novel 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. -Pocket Edition. 


NO. PRICE. 

183 Old Contrairy, and Other Sto- 

ries. By Florence Marryat. . . 10 

184 Thirlby Hall. By W. E. Norris. 20 

185 Dita. By Lady Margaret Ma- 


jendie 10 

186 The Canon’s Ward. By James 

Pa.yn - 20 

187 The Midnight Sun. By Fredrika 

Bremer 10 

188 Idonea. By Anne Beale 20 

189 Valerie’s Fate. Mrs. Alexander 5 

190 Romance of a Black Veil. By 

the author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

191 Harry Lorrequer. By Charles 

Lever 15 

192 At the World’s Mercy. By F. 

Warden 10 

193 The Rosary Folk. By G. Man- 

ville Fenn 10 

194 “ So Near, and Yet So Far !” By 

Alison 10 

195 “ The Way of the World.” By 

David Christie Murray 15 

196 Hidden Perils. By Mary Cecil 

Hay 10 

197 For Her Dear Sake. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

198 A Husband’s Story 10 

199 The Fisher Village. By Anne 

Beale 10 

200 An Old Man’s Love. By An- 

thony Trollope 10 

201 The Monastery. By Sir Walter 

Scott 20 

202 The Abbot. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

203 John Bull and His Island. By 

Max O’Rell.r 10 

204 Vixen. By Miss M. E. Brad don 15 

205 The Minister’s Wife. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 30 

206 The Picture, and Jack of All 

Trades. By Charles Reade. . 10 

207 Pretty Miss Neville. By B. M. 

Croker 15 

208 The Ghost of Charlotte Cray, 

and Other Stories. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 10 

209 John Holdsworth, Chief Mate. 

By W. Clark Russell 10 

210 Readiana: Comments on Cur- 

rent Events. By Chas. Reade 10 

211 The Octoroon. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 10 

212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dra- 

goon. By Chas. Lever ^Com- 
plete in one volume) 30 

213 A Terrible Temptation. Chas. 

Reade 15 

214 Put Yourself in His Place. By 

Charles Reade 20 

215 Not Like Other Girls. By Rosa 

Nouchette Carey 15 

216 Foul Play. By Charles Reade. 15 

217 'The Man She Cared For. By ' 

F. W. Robinson 15 

218 Agnes Sorel. By G. P. R. James 15 

219 Lady Clare ; or, The Master of 

the Forges. By Georges Ohnet 10 


NO,. PRTCE. 


220 Which Loved Him Best? By 

the author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

221 Coinin’ Thro’ the Rye. B3' 

Helen B. Mathers 15 

222 The Sun-Maid. By- Miss Grant 15 

223 A Sailor’s Sweetheart. By W. 

Clark Russell 15 

224 The Arundel Motto. Mary Cecil 

Hay 15 

225 The Giant’s Robe. By F. Anstey 15 

226 Friendship. By “ Ouida ” 20 

227 Naucy. By Rhoda Broughton. 15 

228 Princess Napraxine. By “ Oui- 

da” 20 

229 Maid, Wife, or Widow? By 

Mrs. Alexander 10 

230 Dorothy Forster. By Walter 

Besant 15 

231 Griffith Gaunt. Charles Reade 15 

232 Love and Money ; or, A Perilous 

Secret-. By Charles Reade. . . 10 

233 “ I Say No or, the Love-Letter 

Answered. Wilkie Collins. ... 15 

234 Barbara; or, Splendid Misery. 

Miss M. E. Braddon 15 

235 “ It is Never Too Late to 

Mend.” By Charles Reade... 20 

236 Which Shall It Be? Mrs. Alex- 

ander 20 

237 Repented at Leisure. By the 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 15 

238 Pascarel. By “ Ouida ” 20 

239 Signa. By “ Ouida ” 20 

240 Called Back. By Hugh Conway 10 

241 The Baby’s Grandmother. By 

L. B. Walford 10 

242 The Two Orphans. ByD’Eunery 10 

243 Tom Burke of “Ours.” First 

half. By Charles Lever 20 

243 Tom Burke of “ Ours.” Second 

half. By Charles Lever 20 

244 A Great Mistake. By the author 

of “ His Wedded Wife ”...... 20 

215 Miss Tommy, and In a House- 

Boat. By Miss Mulock 10 

246 A Fatal Dower. By the author 

of “ His Wedded Wife ” 10 

247 The Armourer’s Prentices. By 

Charlotte M. Yonge 10 

248 The House on the Marsh. F. 

Warden 10 

249 “ Prince Charlie’s Daughter.” 

By author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

250 Sunshine and Roses; or, Di- 

ana’s Discipline. By the au- 
thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 


251 The Daughter of the Stars, ami 

Other Tales. By Hugh Con- 
way, author of “Called Back” 10 

252 A Sinless Secret. By “ Rita”.. 10 

253 The Amazon By Carl Vosmaer 10 

254 The Wife’s Secret, and Fair but 

False. By the author of 


“Dora Thorne” 10 

255 The Mystery. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood.... 15 

256 Mr. Smith: A Part of His Life., 

By L. B. Walford 15 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition. 


NO. PRICE. 

257 Beyond Recall. By Adeline Ser- 

geant 10 

258 Cousins. By L. B. Walford 20 

259 The Bride of Monte-Cristo. (A 

Sequel to “ The Count of 
Monte-Cristo.” By Alexander 
Dumas '. 10 

260 Proper Pride. By B. M. Croker 10 

261 A Fair Maid. By F. W. Robinson 20 

262 The Count of Monte-Cristo. 

Parti By Alexander Dumas 20 

262 The Count’ of Monte-Cristo. 

Part II. By Alexander Dumas 20 

263 An Ishmaelite. By Miss M. E. 

Braddou 15 

264 PiOdouche, A French Detective, rf 

By FortunO Du Boisgobey 10 

265 Judith Shakespeare : Her Love 

Affairs and Other Adventures. 

By William Black 15 

266 The Water-Babies. A Fairy Tale 

for a Land-Baby. By the Rev. 
Charles Kingsley 10 

267 Laurel Vane; or, The Girls’ 

Conspiracy. By Mrs. Alex. 
McVeigh Miller.' 20 

268 Lady Gay’s Pride; or, The 

Miser's Treasure. By Mrs. 
Alex. McVeigh Miller 20 

269 Lancaster's Choice. By Mrs. 

Alex. McVeigh Miller 20 

270 The Wandering Jew. Part I. 

By Eugene Sue 20 

270 The Wandering Jew. Part II. 

By Eugene Sue 

2 71 The Mysteries of Paris. Part I. 

By Eugene Sue 

271 The Mysteries of Paris. Part II. 

By Eugene Sue 

272 The Little Savage. By Captain 

Marry at... 10 

273 Love and Mirage ; or, The Wait- 

ing on an Island. By M. 
Betham Edwards 10 

274 Alice, Grand Duchess of Hesse, 

Princess of Great Britain and 
Ireland. Biographical Sketch 
and Letters > TO 

275 The Three Brides. Charlotte M. 

Yonge 10 

276 Under the Lilies and Roses. By 

Florence Marryat (Mrs. Fran- 
cis Lean) 10 

277 The Surgeon’s Daughters. By 

Mrs. Henry Wood. A Man of 
His Word. By W. E. Norris. 10 

278 For Life and Love. By Alison. 10 

279 Little Goldie. Mrs. Sumner Hay- 

den 20 

280 Omnia Vanitas. A Tale of So- 

ciety. By Mrs. Forrester 10 

281 The Squire’s Legacy. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 15 

282 Donal Grant. By George Mac- 

Donald 15 

283 The Sin of a Lifetime. By the 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”.. . 10 
384 Doris. By “ The Duchess ” . . 10 


20 

20 

20 


NO. 

285 

286 

287 

288 
289 


290 

291 

292 

293 

294 

295 

296 

297 

298 

299 


300 


301 

302 

303 


304 

305 


306 


307 


308 

309 

310 

311 

312 

313 

314 

315 

316 


PRICE. 

The Gambler’s Wife 20 

Deldee ; or, Ty>e Iron Hand. By 

F. Warden 20 

At War With Herself. By the 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 10 
From Gloopi to Sunlight. By 
the author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 
John Bull’s Neighbor in Her 
True Light. By a “ Brutal 

Saxon ” 10 

Nora’s Love Test. By Mary Cecil 

Hay 20 

Love’s Warfare. By the author 

of “Dora Thorne” 10 

A Golden Heart. By the author 

of “Dora Thorne” 10 

The Shadow of a Sin. By the 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”.. . 10 
Hilda. By the aul lior of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

A Woman’s War. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

A Rose in Thorns. By the au- 
thor of “Dora Thorne” 10 

Hilary’s Folly. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

Mitchelhurst Place. By Marga- 
ret Veley 10 

The Fatal Lilies, and A Bride 
from the Sea. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of 
Love. By the author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 10 

Dark Days. By Hugh Conwaj^. 10 
The Blatchford Bequest. By 

Hugh Conway 10 

Iugledew House, and More Bit- 
ter than Death. By the author 

of “Dora Thorne” 10 

In Cupid’s Net. By the author 

cf “Dora Thorne” 10 

A Dead Heart, and Lady Gwen- 
doline’s Dream. By the au- 
thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

A Golden Dawn, and Love for a 
Day. By the author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 10 

Two Kisses, and Like No Other 
Love. By the author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

Beyond Pardon 20 

The Pathfinder. By J. Feni- 

more Cooper 20 

The Prairie. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper .’ 20 

Two Years Before the Mast. By 

R. H. Dana, Jr 20 

A Week in Ki Harney. By “The 

Duchess” 10 

The Lover’s Creed. By Mrs. 

Cashel Hoey 15 

Peril. By Jessie Fothergill 20 

The Mistletoe Bough. Edited 

by Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

Sworn to Silence ; or, Aline Rod- 
ney’s Secret. By Mrs. Alex. 
McVeigh Miller 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


NO. PRICE. 

317 By Mead and Stream. Charles 

Gibbon 20 

318 The Pioneers; or, The Sources 

of the Susquehanna. By J. 
Fenimore Cooper — 20 

319 Face to Face : A Fact in Seven 

Fables. By R. E. Francillon. 10 

820 A Bit of Human Nature. By 

David Christie Murray 10 

821 The Prodigals: And Their In- ' 

heritance. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 

822 A Woman’s Love-Story 10 

323 A Willful Maid 20 

324 In Luck at Last. By Walter 

Bcsfint • 10 

325 The Portent. By George Mac- 

donald 10 

826 Phautastes. A Faerie Romance 

for Men and Women. By 
George Macdonald 10 

827 Raymond’s Atonement. (From 

the German of E. Werner.) 

By Christina Tyrrell 20 

828 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. By 

F. Du Boisgobey. First half. 20 

328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. By 

F. Du Boisgobey. Second half 20 

329 The Polish Jew. ByErckmaun- 


Chatrian 10 

330 May Blossom; or, Betweeu Two 

Loves. By Margaret Lee 20 

331 Gerald. By Eleanor C. Price.. 20 

332 Judith Wynne. A Novel 20 

333 Frank Fairlegh ; or, Scenes 

from the Life of a Private 
Pupil. By Frank E. Smedley 20 
331 A Marriage of Convenience. By 

Harriett Jay 10 

335 The White Witch. A Novel 20 

336 Philistia. By Cecil Power 20 

337 Memoirs and Resolutions of 

Adam Graeme of Mossgray, 
Including Some Chronicles of 
the Borough of Fendie. By 
Mrs. Oliphant 20 

338 The Family Difficulty. By Sarah 

Doudney 10 

339 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid. 

By Mrs. Alexander 10 

340 Under Which King? By Comp- 

ton Reade 20 

341 Madolin Rivers; or. The Little 

Beauty of Red Oak Seminary. 

By Laura Jean Libbey 20 

342 The Baby, and One New Year’s 

Eve. By “The Duchess” 10 

343 The Talk of the Town. By 


U cllllto X Cvj 11 • /vv 

344 “The Wearing of the Green.” 

By Basil 20 

345 Madam. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

346 Tumbledown Farm. By Alan 

Muir 10 

847 As Avon Flows. By Henry Scott 

"Vince 20 

348 From Post to Finish. A Racing 

Romance, By Hawley Smart 20 


NO. PRICE. 


. * *v*v>*»» 

349 The Two Admirals. A Tale of 

the Sea. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper 20 

350 Diana of the Crossways. By 

George Meredith 10 

351 The House on the Moor. By 

Mrs. Oliphant 20 

352 At Any Cost. By Edward Gar- 

rett 10 

353 The Black Dwarf, and A Leg- 

. end of Montrose. By Sir Wal- 
ter Scott 20 

354 The Lottery of Life. A Story 

of New York Twenty Years 
Ago. By John Brougham... 20 

355 That Terrible Man. By W. E. 

Norris. The Princess Dago- 
mar of Poland. By Heinrich 
Felbermann 10 

356 A Good Hater. By Frederick 

Boyle 20 

357 John. A Love Story. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

358 Within the Clasp. B3 7 J. Ber- 

wick Harwood 20 

359 The Water-Witch. By J. Feni- 


uivi 1 

360 Ropes of Sand. By R. E. Fran- 

cillon 20 

361 The Red Rover. A Tale of the 

Sea. By J. Fenimore Gooper 20 

362 The Bride of Lammermoor. 

By Sir Walter Scott 20 

363 The Surgeon’s Daughter. By- 

Sir Walter Scott 10 

364 Castle Dangerous. By Sir Wal- 

ter Scott 10 

365 George Christy; or. The Fort- 

unes of a Minstrel. Bj r Tony 
Pastor .' 20 

366 The Mysterious Hunter; or, 

The Man of Death. By Capt. 

L. C. Carleton 20 

367 Tie and Trick. By Hawley Smart 20 


368 The Southern Star; or. The Dia- 

mond Land. By Jules Verne 20 

369 Miss Bretherton. By Mrs. Hum- 

phry Ward 10 

370 Lucy Crofton. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 

371 Margaret Maitland. By Mrs. Oli- 

phant 20 

372 Phyllis’ Probation. By the au- 

thor of “ His Wedded Wife ”. 10 

373 Wing-and-Wing. J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

374 The Dead Man’s Secret; or, The 

Adventures of a Medical Stu- 
dent. By Dr. Jupiter Paeon.. 20 

375 A Ride to Khiva. By Capt. Fred 

Burnaby, of the Royal Horse 


Guards 20 

376 The Crime of Chrjstmas-Day. 

By the author of “ My Duc- 
ats and My Daughter 10 

377 Magdalen Hepburn : A Story 

of the Scottish Reformation. 

By Mi’s. Oliphant..,.,,.,,,.,. 


m 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition. 


NO. PRICE. 

373 Homeward Bound; or, The 

Chase. J. Fenimore Cooper. . 20 
379 Home as Found. (Sequel to 


“ Homeward Bound.”) By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

380 Wyandotte; or. The Hutted 

Knoll. J. Fenimore Cooper. . 20 

381 The Red Cardinal. By Frances 

Elliot 10 

382 Three Sisters; or, Sketches of 

a Highly Original Family. 

By Elsa D’Esterre-Keeling. . . 10 

383 Introduced to Society. By Ham- 

ilton Aide 10 

384 On Horseback Through Asia / 

Minor. Capt. Fred Burnaby J 20 

385 The Headsman; or, The Abbaye 

des Vignerons. By J. Feni- 
more Cooper 20 

380 Led Astray ; or, ‘‘La Petite Comt- 

esse.” By Octave Feuillet. . . 10 

387 The Secret of the Cliffs. By 

Charlotte French 20 

388 Addie's Husband; or, Through 

Clouds to Sunshine. By the 
author of “ Love or Lands?” 10 

389 Ichabod. By Bertha Thomas... 10 

390 Mildred Trevanion. By ‘‘The 

Duchess” 10 

391 The Heart of Mid-Lothian. By 

Sir Walter Scott 20 

392 Peveril of the Peak. By Sir Wal- 

ter Scott 20 

393 The Pirate. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

394 The Bravo. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

395 The Archipelago on Fire. By 

Jules Verne 10 

396 Robert Ord’s Atonement. By 

Rosa Nouchette Carey 20 

397 Lionel Lincoln ; or. The Leaguer 

of Boston. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper 20 

398 Matt: A Tale of a Caravan. 

By Robert Buchanan 10 

399 Miss Brown. By Vernon Lee. . 20 

400 The Wept of Wish-Ton-Wish. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

401 Waverley. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

402 Lilliesleaf; or, Passages in the 

Life of Mrs. Margaret Mait- 
land of Sunnyside. By Mrs. 


Oliphant 20 

403 An English Squire. C. R. Cole- 
ridge 20 


404 In Durance Vile, and Other 
Stories. By “ The Duchess ”. 10 


no. price- 

405 My Friends and I. Edited by 

Julian Sturgis 10 

406 The Merchant’s Clerk. By Sam- 

uel Warren • 10 

407 Tylney Hall. By Thomas Hood 20 

408 Lester’s Secret. By Mary Cecil 

Hay 20 

409 Roy’s Wife. By G. J. Whyte- 

Melville 20 

410 Old Lady Mary. By Mrs. Oli- 

phant 10 

411 A Bitter Atonement. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
Dora Thorne ” 20 

412 Some One Else. By B. M. Croker 20 

413 Afloat and Ashore. By J. Feni- 

more Cooper 20 

414 Miles Wallingford. (Sequel to 

“Afloat and Ashore.”) By J 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

415 The Ways of the Hour. By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

416 Jack Tier; or. The Florida Reef. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

415 The Fair Maid of Perth ; or, St. 
Valentine’s Day. BySirWal- 
ter Scott 20 

418 St. Ronan’s Well. By Sir Wal- 

ter Scolt 20 

419 The Chainbearer : or, The Little- 

page Manuscripts. By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

420 Satanstoe: or, The Littlepage 

Manuscripts. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper 20 


421 The Redskins; or, Indian and 

Injiu. Being the conclusion 
of The Littlepage Manu- 
scripts. J. Fenimore Cooper ,20 

422 Precaution. J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

423 The Sea-Lions; or, The Lost 

Sealers. J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

424 Mercedes of Castile; or. The 


• Voyage to Cathay. By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

425 The Oak Openings; or. The Bee- 

Hunter. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper 20 

426 Venus’s Doves. By Ida Ash- 

worth Taylor 20 

427 The Remarkable History of Sir 

Thomas Upmore, Bait.. M.P., 
formerly known as “Tommy 
Upmore.” R. D. Blackmore. 20 

428 Zfro : A Story of Monte Carlo. 

By Mrs. Campbell Praed 10 


> <• - -js *• ■ -» ■ . . • , ' • • • : 

" ~ £ . ' 

/ ■' ' •• , y. - ■ . - 

- , - 

' - 

r 


*-■ ! ' 

■ 








** - r- k V *’ ‘ “i 








* 





























- ' * ^ 








i • 














Ha ® a - ‘ > r t* : # 
.v r.#-. -x,. * • *• 






.n :• • 

- J . j 












** - 






















*■ 








1 ^ S>J^ ' *f4 * . • -' > 

■; . 














- • 








3ft 








/* 






«-* *, . | 






ir 








. • 












~ *• ■- WT 


* 
















• 








v 






> ’ 


























i 
















w ' 









' n 4 a- * .? 
































































THE 


WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


0 

A TALE 


By 



JVFENIMORE COOPER. 

»* 



“Is this the way 
I must return to native dust?” 



GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 

17 to 27 Vandkwater Street. 


\ % 

















* 


















y 


jr 7 

V f 

PREFACE. 


The object of this book is to draw the attention of the reader to 
some of the social evils that beset us; more particularly in con- 
nection with the administration of criminal justice. Bo long a time 
has intervened since the thought occurred, and so many interrup- 
tions have delayed the progress of the work, that it is felt the sub- 
ject has been very imperfectly treated; but it is hoped that enough 
has been done to cause a few" to reflect on a matter of vital impor- 
tance; one that to them may possess the inlerest of novelty. 

A strange indifference exists as to the composition of the juries. 
In our view, the institution itself, so admirable in a monarchy, is 
totally unsuited to a democracy. The very principle that renders it 
so safe where there is a great central power to resist, renders it un- 
safe in a state of society in which few have sufficient resolution to 
attempt even to resist popular impulses. 

A hundred instances might be given in which the juries of this 
country are an evil; one or two of which we will point out. In 
trials between railroad companies and those who dwell along 
their lines, prejudice is usually so strong against tne former that 
justice for them is nearly hopeless. In certain parts of the 
country, the juries are made the instruments ot defeating the claims 
of creditors who dwell at a distance, and are believed to have inter- 
ests opposed to the particular community where the debtor resides. 
This is a most crying evil, and has been the source of many and griev- 
ous wrongs. Whenever there is a motive for creating a simulated 
public opinion, by the united action of several journals, justice is 
next to hopeless; such combinations rarely, if ever, occurring in its 
behalf. In cases that are connected with the workings of political 
schemes, and not unfrequently in those in which political men are 
parties to the suits, it is often found that the general prejudices or 
partialities of the out-door tactions enter the jury-box. This is a 
most serious evil too; for, even when the feeling does not produce 
a direct and flagrant wrong, it is very apt so far to temper the right 
as to deprive it of much of its virtue. In a country like this, in 
which party penetrates to the very bottom of society, the extent of 
this evil can be known only to those who are brought into close 
contact with the ordinary workings of the institution. 

In a democracy, proper selections in the material that are neces- 
sary to render juries safe, become nearly impossible. Then, the 
tendency is to the accumulation of power in bodies of men: and in 
a state ot society like our own, the juries get to be much too inde- 
pendent of the opinion of the court. It is precisely in that condi- 
tion of things in which the influence and authority of the judge 
guide the juror, and the investigation and substantial power of the 


X 


PREFACE. 


juror react on tlie proceedings oi the court, that the greatest benefits 
have been found to accrue from this institution. The reverse of 
this state of things will be very likely to produce the greatest 
amount of evil. 

It is certain that the juries are falling into disrepute throughout 
the length and breadth of the land. The difficulty is to find a sub- 
stituted As they are bodies holding the lives, property and char- 
acter of every member of the community, more or less, in their 
power, it is not to be supposed that the masses will surrender this 
important means of exercising their authority voluntarily, or with 
good will. Time alone can bring reform through the extent of the 
abuses. 

The writer has not, the vanity to suppose that anything contained 
in this book will produce a very serious impression on the popular- 
ity of the jury. Such is not its design. All that is anticipated is 
to cause a portion of his readers to reflect on the subject; persons 
who probably have never yet given it a moment of thought. 

There is a tendency, at the present time, to court change for its 
own sake. This is erroneously termed a love of reform. Some- 
thing very like a revolution is going on in our midst, while there is 
much reason to apprehend that few real grievances are abated; the 
spurious too exclusively occupying the popular mind, to render easy 
a just distinction between them. When an American prates about 
aristocracy, it is pretty safe to set him down as knavish or ignorant. 
It is purely cant; and the deciaimers would be puzzled to point to 
a single element of the little understood and much decried institu- 
tion, the country being absolutely without any, unless the enjoy- 
ment of the ordinary rights of property can be so considered. But 
the demagogue must have his war-cry as well as the. Indian; and it 
is probable he will continue to whoop as long as the country con- 
tains minds weak enough to furnish him with dupes. 

Cooperstown, March 12, 1850. 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR 


CHAPTER 1. 

Mar. My Lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford armed? 

Aum. Yea, at all points; and longs to enter in. 

King Richard II. 

In one respect, there is a visible improvement in the goodly town 
of Manhattan, and that is in its architecture. Of its growth, there 
has never been any question, while many have disputed its preten- 
sion to improvement. A vast expansion of mediocrity, though use- 
ful and imposing, rarely satisfies either the judgment or the taste; 
those who possess these qualities, requiring a nearer approach to 
what is excellent, than can ever be found beneath the term just 
mentioned. 

A town which is built of red bricks, that are faced with white 
marble^ the whole garnished with green blinds, can 'never have but 
one outward sign— that of tawdry vulgarity. But this radical defect 
is slowly disappearing from the streets of Manhattan; and those who 
build are getting to understand that architecture, like statuary, will 
not admit of strong contrasts in colors. Horace Walpole tells us of 
a certain old Lord Pembroke, who blackened the eyes of the gods 
and goddesses in the celebrated gallery at Wilton, and prided him- 
self on the achievement, as if he had been another Phidias. There 
have been thousands of those who have labored in the spirit of this 
Earl of Pembroke in the streets Of all the American towns; but 
traveling, hints, books and example, are slowly effecting a change; 
and whole squares may now be seen in which the eye rests with 
satisfaction on blinds, facings and bricks, all brought to the same 
pleasing, sober, architectural tint. We regard this as the first step, 
in advance, that has been made in the right direction, so far as the 
outward aspect of the town is concerned, and look forward, with 
hope, to the day when Manhattan shall have banished its rag-fair 
finery altogether, and the place will become as remarkaole for the 
chaste simplicity of its streets, as they have hitherto been for their 
marked want of taste. 

With this great town, mottled as ibis, in people as well as in hues, 
with its native population collected from all parts of this vast repub- 
lic, and its European representatives amounting to scores of thou- 
sands, we shall have much to do in the succeeding pages. Our 
researches, however, will be bestowed more on things moral than" 
on things physical; and we shall endeavor to carry the reader with 


12 THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 

us through scenes that, we regret to say, are far more characteristic 
than novel. 

In one of the cross streets that communicate with Broadway 
and below Canal, stands a dwelling that is obnoxious to all the 
charges of bad taste to which there has already been allusion, as 
well as to certain others that have not yet been named, at all. A 
quarter of a century sin ce, or within the first twenty years of its own 
existence, the house in question would have been regarded as de- 
cidedly patrician, though it is now lost amid the thousands of simi- 
lar abodes that have arisen since its own construction. There it 
stands, with its red bricks periodically painted redder; its marble 
facings, making a lively of red turned up with white; its green blinds, 
its high stoop, Its half- buried and low basement, and all its neatness 
and comfort, notwithstanding its flagrant architectural sins. Into 
this building we now propose to enter, at the very early hour of 
eight in the morning. 

The principal floor was divided, as usual, between a dining and 
a drawing room, with large communicating doors. This was the 
stereotyped construction of all Manhattanese dwellings of any pre- 
tension, a quarter of a century since; and that of Mr. Thomas 
Dunscomb, the owner and occupant of the house in question, had 
been built in rigid conformity with the fashion of its day. Squire 
Dunscomb, as this gentleman was termed in all the adjacent coun- 
try counties, where he was well-known as a reliable and[ sound legal 
adviser; Mr. Thomas Dunscomb, as he was styled by various single 
ladies, who wondered he never married; or Tom Dunscomb, as he 
was familiarly called by a herd of unyoked youths, all of whodn 
were turned of sixty, was a capital fellow in each of his many char- 
acters. As a lawyer, he was as near the top of the bar as a man can 
be, who never had any pretensions to be an orator, and whose lon- 
gest effort seldom exceeded half an hour. Should the plan of placing 
eloquence in hobbles reach our own bar, his habit of condensing, 
his trick of getting multum in parvo , may yet briug him to the very 
summit^ for he will have an immense advantage over those who, 
resembling a country buck at a town ball, need the whole field to 
cut their flourishes in. As a man of the world, he was well-bred, 
though a little cynical, very agreeable, most especially with the 
ladies, and quite familiar with all the better habits of the best-toned 
circles of the place. As a boon companion, Tom Dunscomb was 
an immense favorite, being particularly warm-hearted, and always 
ready for any extra eating or drinking. In addition to these leading 
qualities, Dunscomb was known to be rich, having inherited a very 
tolerable estate, as well as having added much to his means, by a 
large and lucrative practice.* If to these circumstances we add that 
of a very prepossessing personal appearance, in which age was very 
green, the reader {ias all that is necessary for an introduction to one 
of our principal characters. 

Though a bachelor, Mr. Dunscomb did not live alone. He had 
a nephew and a niece in his family, the orphan children of a sister 
who had now been dead many years. They bore the name of Wil- 
meter, which, in the family parlance, was almost always pronounced 
Wilmington. It was Jack Wilmington, and Sally Wilmington, at 
school, at home, and with all their intimates; though Mr. John Wil- 


} 


THE WAYS OE THE HOUR* 


13 

meter and Miss Sarah Wilmeter were often spoken of in their little 
out-door world; it being rather an affectation of the times to prove, 
in this manner, that one retains some knowledge of the spelling- 
book. We shall write the name as it is -written by the parties them- 
selves, forewarning the reader that if he desires to pronounce it by 
the same family standard, he must take the unauthorized spelling 
as a guide. We own ourselves to a strong predilection for old 
familiar sounds, as well as old familiar faces. 

At half-past & a.m., of a fine morning, late in May, when the 
roses were beginning to show their tints amid the verdure of the 
leaves, in Mr. Dunscomb’s yard, the three individuals just men- 
tioned were at the breakfast table of what it is the fashion of New 
York to term a dining-room. The windows were open, and a soft 
and fragrant air filled the apartment. We have said that Mr. 
Dunscomb was affluent, and lie chose to enjoy his means, not d la 
Manhattan, in idle competition with the nouveaux riches, but in a 
more quiet and rational way. His father had occupied lots, “ run- 
ning through,” as it is .termed; building his house on one street and 
his stables on the other; leaving himself a space in the rear of the 
former, that was prodigious for a town so squeezed into parallelo- 
grams of twenty-five feet by a hundred. This open space was of 
the usual Breadth, but it actually measured a hundred and fifty feet 
in length, an area that would have almost justified its being termed 
a “ park,” in the nomenclature of 1110* town. This yard Sarah had 
caused to be well garnished with shrubbery, and, for its dimensions, 
it was really a sort of oasis in that wilderness of bricks. 

The family was not alone that morning. A certain Michael 
Millington was a guest of Jack’s, and seemingly quite at home in 
the little circle. The business of eating and drinking was pretty 
well through with, though each of the four cups had its remains 
of tea or coffee, and Sarah sat stirring hers idly, while her soft eyes 
were turned with interest on the countenances of the two young 
men. The last had a sheet of writing-paper lying between them, 
and their heads were close together, as both studied that which was 
written on it in pencil. As for Mr. Dunscomb,. himself, he was 
fairly surrounded by documents of one sort and another. Two or 
three of the morning papers, glanced at but not read, lay opened on 
the floor; on each side of his plate was a brief, or some lease or re- 
lease; while a copy of the new and much talked of code was in his 
hand. As we say in our American English, Mr. Dunscomb was 
“ emphatically ” a common-law lawyer; and, as our Transatlantic 
brethren would remark in their sometime cockney dialect, he was 
not at all “ agreeable ” to this great innovation on “ the perfection 
of human reason.” He muttered occasionally as he read, and now 
and then he laid down the book, and seemed to muse. All this, 
however, was quite lost on Sarah, whose soft blue eyes still rested 
on the interested countenances of the two young men. At length 
Jack seized the paper, and wrote a line or two hurriedly, with his 
pencil. 

“ There, Mike,” he said, in a tone of self-gratulation, “ 1 thinlt 
that will do!” 

“ It has one merit of a good toast,” answered the friend, a little 
doubtingly; “ it is sententious.” 


14 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 

“ As all toasts ought to be. if we are to have this dinner, and 
the speeches, and all the usual publications afterward, I choose that 
we should appear with some little credit. Pray, sir,” raising liis 
eyes to his uncle, and his voice to correspond, “ what do you think 
of it, now?” 

“ Just as 1 always have, Jack. It will never do at all. Justice 
would halt miserably under such a system of practice. Some of the 
forms of pleadings are infernal, if pleadings they can be called at 
all. I detest even the names they give their proceedings— com- 
plaints and answers!” 

“ They are certainly not as formidable to the ear,” returned Jack, 
a little saucily, “ as rebutters and sur-rebutters. But 1 was not 
thinking of the code, sir; 1 was asking your opinion of my new 
toast.” * 

“ Even a fee could not extract an opinion, unless 1 heard it read.” 

“ Well, sir, here it is: ‘ The constitution of the United States; 
the palladium of our civil and religious liberties.’ Now, I do not 
think I can much better that, Uncle Tom!” 

“ I’m very sorry to hear you say so. Jack.” 

“Why so, sir? I’m sure it is good American sentiment; and 
what is more, it has a flavor of the old English principles that you 
so much admire, about it, too. Why do you dislike it, sir?” 

“ For several reasons— it ^ould be commonplace, which a toast 
should never be, were it true; but there happens not to be a word 
of truth in your sentiment, sonorous as it may sound in your eats.” 

“Not true! Does not the constitution guarantee to the citizen 
religious liberty?” 

“Not a bit of it.” 

“ You amaze me, sir! Why, here, just listen to its language, if 
you please.” 

Hereupon Jack opened a book, and read the clause on which he 
relied to confute one of the ablest constitutional lawyers and clearest 
heads in America. Not that Mr. Dunscomb was what is called an 
“ expounder,” great or small; but he never made a mistake on the 
subject in hand, and had often caused lire best of the “ expounders ” 
to retrace their steps. He was an original thinker, but of the safest 
and most useful sort; one who distinguished between the institutions 
of England and America, while he submitted to the fair application 
of minor principles*that are so common to both. As for his nephew, 
he knew no more of the great instrument he held in his hand, than 
he had gleaned from ill-digested newspaper remarks, vapid speeches 
in Congress, and l he erroneous notions that float about the country, 
coming from “ nobody knows whom,” and leading literally to noth- 
ing. The ignorance that prevails on such subjects is really astound- 
ing, when one remembers the great number of battles that are annu- 
ally fought over this much-neglected compact. 

“ Ay, here is the clause — just please to hear it, sir,” continued 
.lack. “ £ Congress shall make no law' respecting an establishment 
of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging 
the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the light ol the people 
peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress 
of grievances.’ There, 1 think that will go far toward justifying 
the whole toast, Mike.” 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR, 


15 


This was said a little triumphantly, and not a little confidently. 

The only answer Mr. Dunseomb condescended to make was an 
expressive “ Umph!” As tor Michael Millington, he was a little 
timid about expressing an opinion, and that for two reasons; he had 
often expei ienced Mr. Dunscomb’s superior wisdom, and lie knew 
that Sarah heard all that passed. 

“ 1 wish your uncle would lay aside that code for a minute, Jack, 
and let us know what he thinks of our authorities,” said Michael, 
in an undertone. 

“ Come, Uncle Tom,” cried the more hardy nephew— “ come out 
of your reserve, and face the constitution ot your country. Even 
Sarah can see that, for once, we are rielit, and that my toast is of 
proof.” 

“ It is a very good proof -sheet. Jack, not only of your own mind, 
but of half the minds in the country. Banker nonsense can not be 
uttered, however, than to say that the Constitution of the United 
States is the palladium of anytliing'in which civil or religious liberty 
is concerned.” 

“ You do not dispute the fidelity of my quotation, sir?” 

”• By no means. The clause you read is a very useless exhibition 
ot certain f nets that existed just as distinctly before it was framed, 
as they do to-day. Congress had no power to make.,an established 
religion, or abridge the freedom of speech, or that of the press, or the 
right Of the people to petition, before that amendment wa3 intro- 
duced, and consequently the clause itself is supererogatory. You 
take nothing by your motion, Jack.” 

'* 1 do not understand you, sir. To me, it seems that 1 have the 
best of it.” 

“ Congress has no power but what has been conceded to it directly, 
or by necessary connection. Now, there happens to be nothing said 
about granting any ^ich authority to Congress, and consequently the 
prohibition is not necessary. But, admitting that Congress did 
really possess the power to establish a religion previously to the 
adoption of this amendment, the constitution yould not prove a 
palladium to religious liberty, unless it prohibited everybody else 
from meddling with the opinions of the citizen. Any State of this 
Union that pleases, may establish a religion, and compel its citizens 
to support it.” 

“ Why, sir, our own State constitution lias a provision similai to 
this, to prevent it.” 

” Very true, but our own State constitution can be altered in this 
behalf, without asking permission of any one but our own people. I 
think that even Sarah will understand that the United States is no 
palladium, of religious liberty, if it. can not prevent a State from es- 
tablishing Mohammedanism, as soon as a few forms can be complied 
with.” 

Sarah colored, glanced timidly at Michael Millington, but made 
no reply. She did not understand much of what she had just, heard, 
though rather an intelligent girl, but had hoped that Jack. and his 
friend were nearer right than was likely to turn out to be the case. 
Jack, himself, being a young limb of the law, comprehended what 
his uncle meant, and had the grace to color, too, at the manner in 
Which he had manifested his ignorance of the great national com- 


16 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


pact. With a view to relieve himselt from his dilemma, he cried, 
with a ready dexterity— 

‘ Well, since this won't do, 1 must try the jury. ‘ The trial by 
jury, the palladium of our liberties/ How do 1 you like that, sir?” 

“ Worse than the other, boy. Ood protect the country that lias 
no better shield against wrong, than that which a jury can hold be- 
fore it.” 

Jack looked at Michael, and Michael looked at Jack; while Sarah 
looked at both in turn. 

“ You surely will not deny, sir, that the trial by jury is one of the 
most precious of the gifts received from our ancestors?” said the 
first, a little categorically, Sarah brightening up at this question, as 
if she fancied that her brother had now got on solid ground. 

“ Your question can not be answered in a breath, Jack,” returned 
the uncle. ”1 he trial by jury icas undoubtedly a most precious 
boon bestowed on a people among whom there existed an hereditary 
ruling power, on the abuses of which it was often a most salutary 
check.” 

“ Well, sir, is it not the same check here, assuring to the citizens 
independent justice?” 

“ Who compose the ruling power in America, Jack?” 

“ The people, to be sure, sir.” 

“ And who the jurors?” 

” The people, too, 1 suppose,” answered the nephew, hesitating a 
little before he replied. 

‘‘ Well, let us suppose a citizen has a conflict of rights with the 
public, which is the government, who will compose the tribunal 
that is to decide the question?” 

” A jury, to be sure, sir. The trial by jury is guaranteed by the 
constitution to us all.” 

“Ay,” said Mr. Dunscomb, smiling, “ much,as are our religious 
and political liberties. Hut according to your own admission,- this 
is very much like making one of the parties a judge in his own 
case. A insists that he has a right to certain lands, tor instance, 
which the public claims for itself. In such a case, part of the pub- 
lic compose the tribunal.” 

‘‘But is it not true, Mr. Dunscomb,” put in Millington, “that 
the popular prejudice is usually against government, in all cases 
with private citizens?” 

Sarah’s lace looked brighter now than ever, for she felt sure that 
Mike, as her brother familiarly called his friend, had asked a most 
apposite question. 

“ Certainly; you are right as to particular sets of cases, but wrong 
as to others. In a commercial town like this, the feeling is against 
government in all cases connected with the collection of the revenue. 
1 admit; and you will sec that the fact makes against the trial by 
jury in another form, since a judge ought to be strictly impartial; 
above all prejudice whatever.” 

“ But, uncle, a judge and a jury are surely very different things,” 
cried Sarah, secretly impelled to come to Michael’s rescue, though 
she scarce knew anything of the merits of the subject. 

‘‘ Quite right, my dear,” the uncle answered, nodding his head 
kindly, casting a glance at his niece that caused her to blush under 


THE WAYS OE TnE HOUR, 


17 


the consciousness of being fully understood in her motives, if not 
in lier remark. “ Most profoundly right; a judge and a juror ought 
to be very different things. What 1 most complain of is the fact 
that the jurors are fast becoming judges. Nay, ty George, they are 
getting to be legislators, making the law as well as interpreting it. 
How often does it happen, nowadays, that the court teli the jury 
that such is the law, and the jury comes in with a verdict which tells 
the court that such is not the law? This is an every-day occurrence, 
in the actual state of public opinion.” 

“ But the court will order a new trial, if the verdict is against law 
and evidence,” said Michael, determined that Sarah should be sus- 
tained. 

“ Ay, and another jury will be quite likely to sustain the old one. 
No — no— the trial by jury is no more a palladium of our liberties 
than the constitution of the United States.” 

“ Who, or what is, then, sir?” demanded Jack. 

“ Godl Yes, the Deity, in his Divine Providence; if anything is 
to save us. It may not be his pleasure to let us perish, for it would 
seem that some great plan for the advancement of civilization is 
going on, and it may be a part of it to make us important agents. 
All things regarded, 1 am much inclined to believe such is the fact. 
But, did the result depend on us, miserable instruments in the all- 
miglity hands as we are, woful would be the end!” 

“ You do not look at things couleur de rose, Uncle Tom,” Sarah 
smilingly observed. 

“ Because 1 am not a young lady of twenty, who is well satisfied 
with herself and her advantages. There is but one character for 
which 1 have a greater contempt than that of a senseless grumbler, 
who regards all things d tort et d travers, and who cries, there is 
nothing good in the world.” 

“ And what is the exception, sir?” 

“ The man who is puffed up with conceit and fancies all around 
him perfection, when so much of it is the reverse; who ever shouts 
‘ Liberty,’ in the midst of the direst oppression.” 

“But direst oppression is certainly no term to be applied to any- 
thing in New Y T ork!” 

“ You think not? What would you say to a slate of society in 
which the law is available to one class of citizens only, in the way 
of compulsion, and not at all, in the way of protection?” 

“ 1 do not understand you, sir; here, it is our boast that all are 
protected alike.” 

“ Ay, so far as boasting goes, we are beyond reproach. But what 
are the facts? Here is a man that owes money. The law is appealed 
to, to compel payment. Verdict is rendered, and execution issued. 
The sheriff enters his house, and sells his very furniture, to extort 
the amount of the debt from him.” 

“ That is his misfortune, sir. Such things must happen to all 
debtors who can not, or will nol, pay.” 

“ If this were true, 1 should have nothing to say. Imagine this 
very debtor to be also a creditor; to have debts due to him, of many 
times the sums that he owes, but which the law will not aid him in 
collecting. For him, the law is all oppression— -no protection. ” 

“ But, aurely, Uncle Tom, nothing of the sort exists here!” 


18 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


“ Surely, Miss Sarah Wilmeter, such things do exist here in prac- 
tice, whatever may be the theory on the subject; what is more, they 
exist under the influence of facts that are directly connected with 
the working oi the institutions. My case is not supposititious, at all, 
but real. Several landlords have quite recently felt all the rigors of 
the law as debtors, when it was a dead letter to them, in their char- 
acter of creditors. This has actually happened, and that more than 
once; and it might happen a hundred times, were the landlords more 
in debt. In the latter case, it would be an every-day occurrence.” 

“ What, sir,” exclaimed Michael Millington; “ the law enforce, 
when it will not protect?” 

“ That it does, young man, in many interests that 1 could point 
out to you. But here is as flagrant a case of unmitigated tyranny as 
can be cited against any country in Christendom. A citizen is sold 
out of house aud home, under process of law, for debt; and 
when he asks for the use of the same process of law to collect his 
uudeniable dues, it is, in effect, denied him. And this among the 
people who boast that their independence is derived from a spirit 
that would not be taxed' A people who are hourly shouting hosannas 
in honor of their justice!” 

“ It can not be, Uncle Tom, that this is done, in terms,” cried the 
astounded nephew. 

“ If. by terms, you mean professions of justice, and liberty, and 
equal rights, they are fair enough; in all those particulars we are 
irreproachable. As ‘ professors ’ no people can talk more volubly or 
nearer to the point— 1 allude only to facts.” 

“ But these facts may be explained — qualified — are not as flagrant 
as they seem under your statement?” 

“ In what manner?” 

“ Why, sir, this is but a temporary evil, perhaps.” 

” It. has lasted not days, nor weeks, nor mouths, but years. What 
is more, it is an evil that has not occurred in a corner, where it might, 
be overlooked; but it exists within ten miles of your capital, in plain 
sight of your legislators, and owes its impunity solely to their pro- 
found deference to votes. In a word, it is a part of the political 
system under which we live; and that far more so than any disposi- 
tion to tyranny that might happen to manifest itself in an individual 
kins:.” 

“ Do not the tenants who refuse to pay, fancy that their landlords 
have no right to their estates, and does not the whole difficulty arise 
from misapprehension?” asked Michael, a little timidly. 

” Wliat would that have to do with the service of process, if it 
were true? When a sheriff’s officer comes among these men, they 
take his authority from him, and send him away empty. Rights are 
to be determined only by the law, since they are derived from the 
law; and he who meets the law at the threshold, and denies it en- 
trance, can never seriously pretend that he resists because the other 
party has no claims. No, uo, young gentleman — this is all a fetch. 
The evil is of years’ standing; it is of the character of the direst op- 
pression, and of oppression of the worst sort, that of many oppress- 
ing a few; cases in which Ihe sufferer is cut oft from sympathy, as 
you can see by the apathy of the community, which is singing 
hosannas to its own perfection, while this great wrong is committed 


THE WAYS OE THE HOUR. 


19 


under its very nose. Had a landlord oppressed li is tenants, their 
clamor would have made itselt heard throughout the laud. The 
worst feature in the case is that which connects the whole thing so 
very obviously with the ordinary working of the institutions. If it 
were merely human covetousness strugglingagainst the institutions, 
the last might prove the strongest; but it is cupidity, of the basest 
and most transparent nature, using the institutions themselves to 
effect its purpose.” 

“lam surprised that something was not done by the last conven- 
tion to meet the evil!” said Jack, who was much struck with the 
enormity of the wrong, placed before his eyes in its simplest form, 
as it had been by his direct-minded and clear-headed kinsman. 

“ That is because you do not know what a convention has got to 
be. Its object is to push principles into impracticable extremes, 
under the silly pretension of progress, and not to abate evils. I 
made a suggestion myself to certain members of that convention, 
which, in my poor judgment, would have effectually cured this 
disease; but no member had the courage to propose it. Doubtless, 
it would have been useless had it been otherwise.” 

“ It was worth the trial, if such were likely to be its result. 
What was your plan, sir?” 

“ Simply to disfranchise any district in which the law could not 
be enforced by means of combinations of its people. On application 
to the highest court of the State, an order might be granted that no 
polls should be held in one, or more, towns, or counties, in which 
combinations existed of a force sufficient to prevent the laws from 
being put in force. Nothing could be more just than to say that 
men who will not obey the law shall not have a voice in making it, 
and to me it really seems that some such provision would be the 
best possible expedient to check this growing evil. It would be 
choking the enemy with his own food.” 

“ Why was it not done, sir?” 

” Simply because our sages were speculating on votes, and not on 
principles." They will talk to you like so many books touching the 
vices of all foreign systems, but are ready to die in defense of the 
perfection of their own.” 

‘‘ Why was it necessary to make a new constitution, the other 
day,” asked Sarah, innocently, ** if the old one was so very excel- 
lent?” 

44 Sure enough — the answer might puzzle wiser heads than yours, 
child. Perfection requires a great deal of tinkering, in this country. 
We scarcely adopt one plan that shall secure everybody’s rights and' 
liberties, than another is broached, to secure some newly discovered 
rights and liberties. With the dire example before them, of the 
manner in which the elective franchise is abused, in this anti-rent 
movement, the sages of the land have just given to the mass the 
election of judges— as beautiful a scheme for making the bench 
coalesce with the jury-box as human ingenuity could invent!” 

As all present knew that Hr. Dunscomb was bitterly opposed to 
the new constitution, no one was surprised at this last assertion. It 
did create wonder, however, in the minds of all three of the ingen u- 
ouB young persons, when the fact — an undeniable and most crush- 
ing one it’ is, too, so far as any high pretension to true liberty is con- 


20 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


cerned— was plainly laid before them, that citizens were to be found 
in .New York against whom the law was rigidly enforced, while it 
was powerless in their behalf. TV e have never known this aspect 
of the case presented to any mind, that it did not evidently produce 
a deep impression, for the moment ; but, alas ! “ what is everybody’s 
business is nobody’s business,” and few care for the violation of a 
principle when the wrong does not affect themselves. These young 
folk were, like all around them, unconscious even that they dwelt 
in a community in which so atrocious a wrong was daily done, and, 
for the moment, were startled when the truth was placed before 
their eyes. The young men, near friends, and, by certain signs, 
likely to be even more closely united, were much addicted to specu 
lating on the course of events, as they perceived them to be tending, 
in other countries. Michael Millington, in particular, was a good 
deal of a general politician, having delivered several orations, in 
which he had laid some stress on the greater happiness of the people 
of this much favored land over those of all other countries, and 
especially on the subject of equal rights. He was too young, yet, 
to have learned the wholesome truth, that equality of rights, in 
practice, exists nowhere; the ingenuity and selfishness of man find- 
ing the means to pervert to narrow purposes the most cautious laws 
that have ever been adopted in furtherance of a principle that would 
seem to be so just. Nor did he know that the Bible contains all the 
wisdom and justice, transmitted as divine precepts, that are neces- 
sary to secure to every man all that is desirable to possess here below. 

The conversation was terminated by the entrance of a fourth col- 
loquist, in the person of Edward McBrain, M.D., who w T as not only 
the family physician, but the bosom friend of the lawyer. The two 
liked each other on the principle of loving their opposites. One was 
a bachelor, the other was about to marry his third wife; one was a 
little of a cynic, the other much of a philanthropist; one distrust- 
ful of human nature, the other too confiding; one cautious to ex- 
cess, the other absolutely impetuous, whenever anythin^ strongly- 
interested his feelings. They were alike in being Manliattanese by 
birth, somewhat a novelty in a New Yorker; in being equally gradu- 
ates of Columbia, and classmates; in a real love of their fellow- 
creatures; in goodness of heart, and in integrity. Had either been 
wanting in these last great essentials, the other coult} not have en- 
dured him. 


CHAPTER II. 

O change! — stupendous change? 

There lies the soulless clod; 

The sun eternal breaks — 

The new immortal wakes — 

Wakes with his God. 

Mrs. Southey. 

As Dr. McBrain entered the room, the two young men and Sarah, 
after saluting him like very familiar acquaintances, passed out into 
what the niece called her “ garden.” Here she immediately set her 
scissors at work in clipping roses, violets, and other early flowers, 
to make bouquets for her companions. That of Michael was much 
the largest and most tasteful ; but this her brother did not remark, 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


21 


as he was in a brown study, reflecting on tire singularity of the cir- 
cumstance that the Constitution of the L'nitecl States should not be 
the “ palladium of his political and religious liberties.” Jack saw, 
for the first time in his life, that a true knowledge of the constitu- 
tion was not to be found floating about in society, and that “ there 
was more iu the nature of the great national compact than was 
dreamed of in his philosophy.” 

“ Well, Ned,” said the lawyer, holding out his hand kindly but 
notrising from his chair, ‘‘what has brought you here so early? 
Has old Martha spoiled your tea?” 

‘‘Not at all; 1 have paid this visit, as it?* might be, profession- 
ally.” 

“ Professionally! I never was better in my life; and set you down 
as a false prophet, or no doctor, if you like that better, for the gout 
has not even given a premonitory hint, this spring; anil 1 hope, now 
I have given up Sauterne altogether, and take but four glasses of 
Madeira at dinner — ” . 

‘‘ Two too many.” , 

“ I’ll engage to drink nothing but sherry, Ned, if you’ll consent 
to four, and that without any of those forbidding looks.” 

‘‘Agreed; sherry has less acictity, and consequently less gout, 
than Madeira. But my business here this morning, though profes- 
sional, does not relate to my craft, but to your own.” 

“ To the law? Now 1 take another look at you, 1 do see (rouble 
in your physiognomy; am 1 not to draw the marriage settlements, 
after all?” 

“ There are to be none. The new r law gives a woman the entire 
control of all her property, they tell me, and 1 suppose she will not 
expect the control of mine.” 

“ Umph! Yes, she ought to be satisfied with things as they are, 
for she will remain mistress of all her cups and saucers, even— ay, 
and of her houses and lands, in the bargain. Hang me, if I would 
ever marry, wlien the contract is so one-sided.” 

“ You never did, when the contract was t’otner-sided. For my 
part, Tom. I’m disposed to leave a woman mistress of her own. 
The experiment is worth the trial, if it be only to see the use she 
will make of her money.” 

“ You are always experimenting among the women, and are about 
to try a third wife. Thank Heaven, I’ve got on sixty years, quite 
comfortably, without even one.” 

‘‘You have only half lived your life. No old bachelor— mean- 
ing a man after forty— know T s anything of real happiness. It is nec- 
essary to be married, in order to be truly happy.” 

“ 1 wonder you did not add, ‘ two or three times.’ But you may 
make this new contract with greater confidence than either of the 
others. I suppose you have seen this new divorce project that is, 
or has been, before the legislature?” 

“ Divorce! I trust no such foolish law will pass. This calling 
marriage a ‘ contract,’ loo, is what l never liked. It is something 
far more than a ‘ contract,’ in my view of the matter.” 

‘‘ Still, that is what the law considers it to be. Get out of (his 
new scrape, Ned, if you can with any honor, and remain an inde- 
pendent freeman for the rest of your days. 1 date say the widow 


THE WAYS OF TTTE HOUR, 


could soon find some other amorous youth 16 place her affections 
on. It matteis not much whom a woman loves, piovided she love, 
Of this, I’m certain, from seeing the sort of animals so many do 
love. * ’ 

“Nonsense; a bachelor talking of love, or matrimony, usually 
makes a zany of himself. It is terra incognita to you, my boy, and 
the less you say about it, the better. You are the only human 
being, Tom, I ever met with, who has not, some time or other, been 
in love. I really believe you never knew what the passion is." 

“ 1 fell in love, early in life, with a certain my lord Coke, and 
have remained true to my first attachment. Besides, I..saw 1 had 
an intimate friend who would do all the marrying that was neces- 
sary for two. or even for three; so 1 determined, from the first, to 
remain single. A man has only to be turn, and he may set Cupid 
as defiance. It is not so with women, 1 do believe; it is part of 
their nature to love, else would no woman admire you, at your 
time ol life.” 

“ 1 don’t know that — 1 am by no means sure of that. Each time 
1 had the misfortune to become a widower, 1 was just as determined 
to pass the remainder of my days in reflecting on the worth of her 
1 had lost, as you can be to remain a bachelor; but somehow or 
other, I don’t pretend to account for it, not a year passed before 1 
have found inducements to enter into new engagements. It is a 
blessed thing, is matrimony, and 1 am resolved not to continue sin- 
gle an hour longer than is necessary." 

Dunscomb laughed out, at tlie earnest manner in which his friend 
spoke, though conversations, like this we have been relating, were 
of frequent occurrence between them, 

“ The same old sixpence, Ned! A Benedict as a boy, a Benedict 
as a man, and a Benedict as a dotard — ” 

“ Dotard! My good fellow, let me tell you — " 

“Poll! i don’t desire to hear it. But as you came on business 
connected with the law, and that business is not a marriage-settle- 
ment, what is it? Does old Kingsborough maintain his right to the 
Harlem lot?” 

“ No, he has given the claim up, at last. My business, Tom, is 
of a very different nature. What are we coming to, and what is to 
be the end of it all!" 

As the doctor looked far more than he expressed, Dunscomb was 
struck with his manner. The Siamese twins scarce understand 
each other’s impulses and wishes better than these two men compre- 
hended each other’s feelings; and Tom saw at once that Ned was 
now very much in earnest. 

“Coming to?" repeated Dunscomb. “Do you mean the new 
code, or the ‘ Woman-bold the Purse Law,’ as 1 call it? 1 don’t 
believe you look far enough ahead to foresee all the damnable con- 
sequences of an elective judiciary." 

“ It is not that— this, or that— 1 do not mean codes, constitutions, 
or pin money. Wbat is the country coming to, Tom Dunscomb— 
that is the question, 1 askZ" 

“Well, and has the country nothing to do with constitutions, 
codes, and elective judges? I can tell you, Master Ned McBraio, 
M.D., that if the patient is to be saved at all, it must be by means 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 23 

of the judiciary, and 1 do not like the advice that has just been 
called in.” J 

“ You are a croaker. They tell me the new judges are reasona- 
bly good.” 

“ ‘ Reasonably ’ is an expressive word. The new judges are old 
judges, in part, and in so much they do pretty well, by chance. 
Some of the new judges are excellent— but one of the very best men 
on the whole bench was run against one of the worst men who 
could have been put in his place. At the next heat I fear the bad 
fellow will get the track. It you do not mean what I have men- 
tioned, what do you mean?” 

“ 1 mean the increase of crime— the murders, arsons, robbeiies, 
and other abominations that seem to take root among us, like so 
many exotics transplanted to a genial soil.” 

Exotics ’ and ‘ genial ’ be hanged! Men are alike everywhere. 
No one but a fool ever supposed that a republic is to stand, or fall, 
by its virtue.” 

“ Yet, the common opinion is that such must be the final test of 
our institutions.” 

“ Jack has just been talking nonsense on this suject, and now yoi~ 
must come to aid him. But, what has your business with me, this 
morning, to do with the general depreciation in morals?” 

“ A great deal, as you will allow, when you come to hear my 
story.” 

Dr. McBrain then proceeded forthwith to deliver himself of the 
matter which weighed so heavily on his mind. He was the owner 
of a small place in an adjoining county, where it was his custom to 
pass as much time, during the pleasant months, as a very extensive 
practice in town would allow. This was not much, it. is true, 
though the worthy physician so contrived matters, that his visits to 
Timbully, as the place was called, if not long, were tolerably numer- 
ous. A kind-hearted, as well as a reasonably-aflluent man, he never 
denied his professional services to his country neighbors, who 
eagerly asked his advice whenever there was need of it. This por- 
tion of the doctor’s practice flourished on two accounts— one being 
his known skill, and the other his known generosity. In a word, 
Dr. McBrain never received any compensation for his advice, from 
any in the immediate neighborhood of his country residence. This 
rendered him exceedingly popular; and he might have been sent to 
Albany, but lor a little cold water that was thrown on the project 
by a shrewd patriot, who suggested that while the physician was 
atlending to affairs of state, he could not be administering to the 
ailings of his Timbully neighbors. This may have checked the doc 
toi’s advancement, but it did not impair his popularity. 

Now, it happened that the bridegroom-expectant had been out to 
Timbully, a distance of less than fifteen miles from his house in 
Bleecker Street, with a view to order matters for the reception of 
the bride, it being the intention of the couple that w r ere soon to be 
united to pass a tew days there, immediately after the ceremony 
was performed. It was while at his place, attending to this most 
important duty, that an express came from the county towu, requir- 
ing his presence before the coroner, where he wag expected to give 
his evidence as a medical man. It seems that a house had been 


24 THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 

burned, and its owners, an aged couple, had been burned in it. 
The remains of the bodies had been found, and an inquest was 
about to be held on them. This was pretty much all that the mes- 
senger could tell, though be rather thought that it was suspected 
the house had been set on fire, and the old people, consequently, 
murdered. 

As a matter of course, Dr. McBrain obeyed the summons. A 
county town, in America, is otten little more than a hamlet, though 
in New York they are usually places of some greater pretensions. 
The State has now near a dozen incorporated cities, with their 
mayors and aldermen, and with one exception, we believe these are 
all county towns. Then come the incorporated villages, in which 
New York is fast getting to be rich, places containing from one to 
six or seven thousand souls, and which, as a rule, are steadily grow- 
ing into respectable provincial towns. The largest of these usually 
contain “ the county buildings,” as it is the custom to express it. 
But, in the older counties, immediately around the great commer- 
cial capital of the entire republic, these large villages do not always 
exist; or when they do exist, are not sufficiently central to meet the 
transcendental justice of democratic equality — a quality that is 
sometimes of as'exacting pretension, as of real imbecility; as witness 
the remarks of Mr. Dunscomb, in our opening chapter. 

The county buildings of - — happen to stand in a small village, 
or what is considered a small village, in the lower part of the State. 
As the events of this tale are so recent, and the localities so familiar 
to rnany persons, we choose to call this village “ Biberry,” and the 
county “ Dukes.” Such was once the name of a New York county, 
though the appellation has been dropped, and this not from any 
particular distaste tor the strawberry leaves; “ Kings,” “ Queens,” 
and “Duchess” having been wisely retained — wisely, as names 
should be as rarely changed as public convenience will allow. 

Dr. McBrain found the village of Biberry in a high state of ex- 
citement; one, indeed, of so intense a nature as to be far from favor- 
able to the judicial inquiry that was then going on in the court- 
house. The old couple who were the sufferers in this affair had 
been much respected by all who knew them; he as a commonplace, 
well meaning man, ot no particular capacit}'. and she as a manag- 
ing, discreet, pious woman, whose greatest failing was a neatness 
that was carried somewhat too near to ferocity. Nevertheless, Mrs. 
Goodwin was, generally, even more respected than her husband, 
for she hail the most mind, transacted most of the business of the 
family, and was habitually kind and attentive to every one who 
entered her dwelling; prodded, always, that they wiped their feet 
on her mats, ot which it was necessary to pass no less than six, 
before the little parlor was reached, and did not spit on her carpet, 
or did not want any ot her money. This popularity added greatly 
to the excitement; men, and women also, commonly feeling a 
stronger desire to investigate wrongs done to those they esteem, 
than to investigate wrongs done to those concerning whom they are 
indifferent. 

Dr. McBrain found the charred remains of this unfortunate couple 
laid on a table in the court-house, the coroner in attendance, and a 
jury impaneled. Much of the evidence concerning the discovery 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 25 

of the fire had been gone through with, and was of a very simple 
character. Some -one who was stirring earlier than common had 
seen the house in a bright blaze, had given the alarm, and had pre- 
ceded the crowd from the village, on the road to the burning dwell- 
ing. The Goodwins had resided in a neat, retired cottage, at the 
distance of near two miles from Biberry, though in sight from the 
village; and by the time the first man from the latter reached the 
spot the roof had fallen in, and the materials were mostly con- 
sumed. A. dozen, or more, of the nearest neighbors were collected 
around the ruins, and some articles of household furniture had been 
saved; but, on the whole, it was regarded as one of the most sudden 
and destructive fires ever known in that part of the country. When 
the engine arrived from the village if played briskly on the fire, and 
was the means of soon reducing all within the outer walls, which 
were of stone, to a pile of blackened and smoldering wood. It 
was owing to this circumstance that any portion of the remains of 
the late owners of the house had been found, as was done in the 
manner thus described, in his testimony, by Peter Bacon, the person 
who had first given the alarm in Bi berry. 

“ As soon as 1 ever seed it was Peter Goodwin’s house that made 
the light,” continued this intelligent witness, in the course of his 
examination, — “ 1 guv’ the alarm, and started oft on the run, to see 
what I could do. By the time 1 gol to the top of Brudler’s Hill 1 
was fairly out of breath, 1 can tell you, Mr. Coroner and Gentle- 
men of the Jury, and so 1 was obliged to pull up a bit. This guv’ 
the fire a so much better sweep, and when 1 reached the spot, there 
was little chance for doing much good. We got out a chest of 
drawers, and the young woman who boarded with the Goodwins 
was helped down out of the window, and most of her clothes, I 
b’lieve, was saved, so far as I know.” 

“ Stop,” interrupted the coroner; “ there was a young woman in 
the house, you say?” 

“Yes; what 1 call a young woman, or a gal like; though other 
some calls her a young woman. Waal, she was got out: and her 
clothes was got out; but nobody could get out the old folks. As 
soon as the ingyne come up we turned on the water, and that put 
out the fire about the quickest. After that we went to diggiu’, and 
soon found what folks call the remains, though to my notion there 
is little enough on ’em that is left.” 

“ You dug out the remains,” said the coroner, writing; “in what 
state did you find them?” 

** In what 1 call a pretty poor state; much as you see ’em there, 
on the table.” 

“ What has become of the young lady you have mentioned?” in- 
quired the coroner, who, as a public functionary, deemed it prudent 
to put all of the sex into the same general category. 

“ I can’t tell you, squire; 1 never see’d her arter she was got out 
of the window.” 

“ Do you mean that she was the hired-girl of the family— or had 
the old lady no help?” 

” 1 kinder think she was a boarder, like; one that paid her keep- 
in’, ’’.answered the witness, who was not a person to draw very nice 
distinctions, as the reader will have no difficulty in conceiving from 


26 


THE WAYS OE THE HOUR. 


his dialect. “ It, seems to me I heer’n tell ot another help in the 
Goodwin family — a sorter Jarman, or Irish lady.” 

“Was any such woman seen about the house this morning, when 
the ruins were searched?” 

“ Not as i’ner. We turned over the brands and sticks until we 
come across the old folks; then everybody seemed to think the 
work was pretty much done.” 

“ In what state, or situation, were these remains found?” 

“ Burnt to a crisp, just as you see ’em, squire, as 1 said afore; a 
pretty poor state for human beings to be in.” 

“ But where were they lying, and were they near each other?” 

“ Close together. Their heads, if a body can call them black- 
lookin’ skulls heads, at all, almost touched, if they didn’t quite 
touch, each other; their feet lay further apart.” 

■ s Do you think you could place the skeletons in the same manner, 
as respects each other, as they were when you first saw r them? But 
let me first inquire, if any other person is present, who saw these 
remains before they had been removed?” 

Several men, and one or two women, who were in attendance to 
be examined, now came forward, and stated that they had seen the 
remains in the condition in which they had been originally found. 
Selecting the most intelligent ot the party, after questioning them 
all round, the coroner desired that the skeletons might be laid, as 
near as might be, in the same relative positions as those in which 
they had been found. There was a difference of opinion among 
the witnesses, as to several of the minor particulars, though all ad- 
mitted that the bodies, or what remained oi them, had been found 
quite close together; their heads touching, and their feet some litlle 
distance apart. In this manner, then, were the skeletons now dis- 
posed; the arrangement being completed just as Dr. McBrain en- 
tered the court-room. The coroner immediately directed the wit- 
nesses to stand aside, while the physician made an examination of 
the crisped bones. 

” This looks like foul play!” exclaimed the doctor, almost as 
soon as his examination commenced. “ The skulls of both these 
persons have been fractured; and, if this be anything near the posi- 
tions in which the skeletons were found, as it would seem, by the 
same blow.” 

He then pointed out to the coroner and jury a small fracture in 
the frontal bone of each skull, and so nearly in a line as to render 
his conjecture highly probable. This discovery gave an entirely 
new coloring to the whole occurrence, and every one present began 
to speculate on the probability of arson and murder being connected 
with the unfortunate affair. The Goodwins w'ere known to have lived 
at their ease, and the good woman, in particular, had the reputation 
of being a little miserly. As everything like order vanished tempo- 
rarily from the court-room, and tongues were going in all directions, 
many things were related that were really of a suspicious character, 
especially by the women. The coroner adjourned the investigation 
for the convenience of irregular conversation, in order to obtain 
useful clews to the succeeding inquiries. 

“ You say that old Mrs. Goodwin had a good deal of specie?” in 
quircd that functionary ot a certain Mrs. Pope, a widow woman 


THE WATS OF THE HOUR. 27 

who had been free with her communications, and who very well 
might know more than the rest of the neighbors, from a very active 
propensity she had ever manifested, to look into the affairs of all 
around her. “ Did 1 understand you, that you bad seen this money 
yourself?” 

“ Yes, sir; often and often. She kept it in a stocking of the old 
gentleman’s, that was nothing but darns: so darny like, that no- 
body could wear it. Miss Goodwin wasn’t a woman to put away 
anything that was of use. A clusser body wasn’t to be found, any- 
where near Biberry.” 

“ And some of this money wq^ gold, I think 1 heard you say. A 
stocking pretty well filled with gold and silver.” 

“ The foot was cramming full, when I saw it, and that wasn’t 
three months since. 1 can’t say there was any great matter in the 
leg.' Yes, there was gold in it, ‘too. She showed me the stocking 
the last time 1 saw it, on purpose to ask me what might be the valie 
of a piece of gold that was almost as big as half a dollar.” 

“ Should you know that piece of gold, were you to see it, again?” 

“ That 1 should. L didn’t know its name, or its valie, for 1 never 
seed so big a piece afore, but 1 told Miss Goodwin 1 thought it must 
be ra’al Californy. Them’s about now, they tell me, and 1 hope 
poor folks will come in for their share. Old as 1 am — that is, not 
so very old neither— but such as 1 am, I never had a piece of gold 
in my life.” 

“ You can not tell, then, the name of this particular coin?” 

”1 couldn’t; if 1 was to have it for the telling, 1 couldn’t. It 
wasn’t a five-dollar piece; that 1 know, for the old lady had a good 
many, of them , and this was much larger, and yellower, too; better 
gold, 1 conclude.” 

The coroner was accustomed to garrulous, sight-seeing females, 
and knew how to humor them. 

“ Where did Mrs. Goodwin keep her specie?” he inquired. *“ If 
jrou ever saw her put the stocking away, you must know its usual 
place of deposit.” 

“ In her chest of drawers,” answered the woman eagerly. “ That 
very chest of drawers which was got out of the house, as sound as 
the day it went into it, and has been brought down into the village 
foi safe keeping.” 

All this was so, and measures were taken to push the investiga- 
tion further, and in that direction. Three or four young men, will- 
ing volunleers in such a cause, brought the bureau into the court- 
room, and the coroner directed that each of the drawers should be 
publicly opened, in the presence of the jurors. The widow was 
first sworn, however, and testified regularly to the matter of the 
stocking, the money, and the place of usual deposit. 

“Ah! you’ll not find it there,” observed Mrs. Pope, as the vil- 
lage cabinet-maker applied a key, the wards of which happened to 
fit those of the locks in question. “ She kept her money in the low- 
est draw of all. I’ve seen her take the stocking out, first and last, 
at least a dozen times.”. 

The lowei draw was opened, accordingly. It contained female 
apparel, and a goodty store of such articles as were suited to the 
wants of a respectable woman in the fourth or fifth of the gradations 


28 


THE WAYS . OF THE HOU#, 


into which all society so naturally, and unavoidably, divides itself. 
But there was no stocETng full of darns, no silver, no gold, Mrs. 
Pope’s busy and nimble fingers were thrust hastily into an inner 
coi ner of the drawer, and a silk dress was unceremoniously opened, 
that having been the precise receptacle of the treasure as she had 
seen it last bestowed. 

“ It’s gone!” exclaimed the woman. “ Somebody must have 
taken it!” 

A. great deal was now thought to be established. The broken 
skulls, and the missing money, went near to establish a case of mur- 
der and robbery, in addition to the 4igh crime of arson. Men, who 
had worn solemn and grave countenances all that morning, now 
looked excited and earnest. The desire for a requiting justice was 
general and active, and the dead became doubly dear, by means of 
their wrongs. 

All this time Dr. McBrain had been attending, exclusively, to 
the part of the subject that most referred to his own profession. Of 
the fractures in the two skulls, he was well assured, though the ap- 
pearance of the remains was such as almost to baffle investigation. 
Of another important fact he was less certain. While all he heard 
prepared him to meet with the skeletons of a man and his wHe, so 
far as he could judge, in the imperfect state in which they were 
laid before him, the bones were those of two females. 

“ Did you know this Mr. Goodwin, Mr. Coroner?” inquired the 
physician, breaking into the more regular examination with very 
little ceremony; “ or was he well known to any here?” 

The coroner had no very accurate knowledge of the deceased, 
though every one of the jurors had been well acquainted with him. 
Several had known him all their lives. 

“ Was he a man of ordinary size?” asked the doctor. 

“ Very small. Not taller than his wife, who might be set down 
as quite a tall old lady.”" 

It often happens in Europe, especially in England, that the man 
and his wife are so nearly of a height as to leave very little sensible 
difference in their stature; but it is a rare occurrence in this coun- 
try. In America, the female is usually delicate, and of a compara- 
tively small frame, while the average height of a man is something 
beyond that of the European standard. It was a little out of the 
common way, therefore, to meet with a couple so nearly of a size, as 
these remains would make Goodwin and his wife to have been. 

“ These skeletons are very nearly of the same length,” resumed 
the doctor, after measuring them for the fifth’ time. “ The man 
could not have been much if any taller than his wife.” 

“He was not,” answered a juror. “Old Peter Goodwin could 
not have been more than five feet five, and Dorothy was all of that, 
1 should think. When they came to meeting together, they looked 
much of a muchness.” 

Now, there is nothing on which a prudent and regular physician 
is more cautious than in committing himself on unknown and un- 
certain ground. He has his theories, and his standard of opinions, 
usually well settled in his mind, and he is ever on the alert to pro- 
tect and bolster them; seldom making any admission that may con- 
travene either. He is apt to denounce the water cure, however sur- 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


29 


prising may have been its effects; and there is commonly but one of 
the “ opathies ” to which he is in the least disposed to defer, and 
that is the particular “ opathy ” on which he has molded his prac- 
tice. As for Dr. McBrain, he belonged strictly to the allopathic 
school, and might be termed almost an ultra in his adherence to its 
laws, while the number of the new schools that were springing up 
around him, taught him caution, as well as great prudence, in* the 
expression of his opinions. Give him a patient, and he went to 
work boldly, and with the decision and nerve of a physician ac- 
customed to practice in an exaggerated climate; but place him be- 
fore the public, as a theoretical man, and he was timid and wary. 
His friend Dunscomb had observed this peculiarity, thirty years be- 
fore the commencement of our tale, and had quite recently told 
him, “You are bold in the only thing in which 1 am timid, Ned, 
and that is in making up to the women. If Mrs. Updyke were a 
new-fangled theory, now, instead of an old-fashioned widow, as 
she is, hang me if I think you would have ever had the spirit to 
propose.” This peculiarity of temperament, and, perhaps, we 
might add of character, rendered Dr McBrain, now, very averse 
to saying, in the face of such probability, and the statements of so 
many witnesses, that the mutilated and charred skeletons that lay 
on the court-house table were those of two females, and not those 
of a man and his wife. It was certainly possible he might be' mis- 
taken; for the conflagration had made sad work of these poor em- 
blems of mortality; but science has a clear eye, and the doctor was 
a skillful and practiced anatomist. In his own mind, there were 
very few doubts on the subject. , 

As soon as the thoughtful physician found time to turn his atten- 
tion on the countenances of those who composed the crowd in the 
court-room, he observed that nearly all eyes were bent on the per- 
son of one particular female, who sat apart, and was seemingly 
laboring under a shock of some sort or other, that materially affected 
her nerves. McBrain saw, at a glance, that this person belonged 
to a class every way superior to that of even the highest of those 
who pressed around the table. The face was concealed in a hand- 
kerchief, but the form was not only youthful but highly attractive. 
Small, delicate hands and feet could be seen; such hands and feet 
as we are all accustomed to see in an American girl, who has been 
delicately brought up. Her dress was simple, and of studied mod- 
esty; but there was an air about that, which a little surprised the 
kind-hearted individual, who was now so closely obsei ving her. 

The doctor had little difficulty in learning from those near him 
that this “ young woman,” so all in tne crowd styled her, though 
it was their practice to term most girls, however humble their con- 
dition, “ladies,” had been residing with the Goodwins for a few 
weeks, in the character of a boarder, as some asserted, while others 
affirmed it was as a friend. At all events, there was a mystery 
about her; and most of the girls of Bi berry had called her proud, 
because she did not join in their frivolities, flirtations and visits. It 
was true, no one had ever thought of discharging the duties of social 
life by calling on her, or in making the advances usual to well-bred 
people; but this makes little difference where there is a secret con- 
sciousness of inferiority, and of an inferiority that is felt, while it 


30 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


is denied. Such things are ot every-day occcurrence, in country- 
life in particular, while American town-life is far from being ex- 
empt from the weakness. In older countries, the laws oi society 
are better respected. 

It was now plain that the blight of suspicion had fallen on this 
unknown, and seemingly friendless girl. If the fire had been com- 
municated intentionally, who so likely to be guilty as she?— if the 
money was gone, who had so many means of securing it as herself? 
'Ihese were questions that passed tiom one to another, until dis- 
trust gathered so much head, that the coroner deemed it expedient 
to adjourn the inquest, while the proof might be collected, and 
offered in proper form. 

Dr. McBiain was, by nature, kind hearted; then he could not 
easily get over that stubborn scientific fact, of both the skeletons 
having belonged to females. It is true that, admitting this to be 
the case, it threw very little light on the matter, and in no degree 
lessened any grounds of suspicion that might properly rest on the 
“ young woman ;” but it separated him from the throng, and placed 
his mind in a sort of middle condition, in which he fancied it might 
be prudent, as well as charitable, to doubt. Perceiving that the 
crowd was dispersing, though not without much animated discus- 
sion in undertones, and that the subject of all this conversation still 
remained in her solitary corner, apparently unconscious of what was 
going on, the worthy doctor approached the immovable figure, and 
spoke. 

‘‘ You have come here as a witness, I presume,” he said, in a 
gentle tone; *‘ if so, your attendance just now will no longer be nee 
essary, the coroner having adjoined the inquest until to-morrow T 
afternoon.” 

At the first sound of his voice, the solitary female removed a fine 
cambiic handkerchief from her face, and permitted her new com- 
panion to look upon it. We shall say nothing, here, touching that 
countenance or any olher personal peculiarity, as a sufficiently mi- 
nute description will be given in the next chapter, through the 
communications made by Dr. McBrain to Dunscomb. Thanking her 
informant for his information, and exchanging a few brief sen- 
tences on the melancholy business which had brought both there, 
the young woman arose, made a slight but very graceful inclination 
of her body, and withdrew. 

Dr. McBrain’s puipose was made up on the spot. He saw very 
plainly that a fierce current of suspicion was setting against this 
pleasing, and, as it seemed to him, friendless young creature; and 
lie determined at once to hasten back to town, and get his friend to 
go out to Biberry, without a moment’s delay, that he might appear 
there that very afternoon in the character of counsel to the helpless 


CHAPTER 111, 

I am informed thoroughly of the cause. 

Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew? 

Merchant of Venice . 

Such was the substance ot the communication that Dr. McBrain 
now made to his friend, Tom Dunscomb. The latter had listened 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 31 

with an interest he did not care to betray, and when the othei was 
done he gayly cried — 

“ I'll tell the Widow Updyke of you, Ned!” 

“ She knows the whole story already, and is very anxious lest you 
should have left town, to go to the Rockland circuit, where she 
has been told you have an important case to try.” 

“ The case goes over on account of the opposite counsel’s being 
in the court of appeals. Ah’s me! 1 have no pleasure in managing 
a cause since this Code of Procedure has innovated on all our com- 
fortable and venerable modes of doing business. 1 believe 1 shall 
close up my affairs, and retire, as soon as 1 can bring all my old 
cases to a termination.” 

‘‘ If you can bring those old cases to a termination, you will be 
the first lawyer who ever did.” 

” Yes, it is true, Ned,” answered Dunscomb, coolly taking a 
pinch of snuff, ‘‘*you doctors have the advantage of us, in this be- 
half; your cases certainly do not last forever.” 

‘‘Enough of this, Tom— you will go to Biberry, l take it for 
granted?” 

‘‘You have foi gotten the fee. Under the new code, compensa- 
tion is a matter of previous agreement.” 

‘‘You shall have a pleasat excursion, over good roads, in the 
month of May, in an easy carriage, and dr^twn by a pair of as 
spirited horses as ever trotted on the Third Avenue.” 

“ The animals you have just purchased in honor of Mrs. Updyke 
that is — Mrs. McBrain that is to be—” touching the bell, ami add- 
ing to the ve^ respectable black who immediately answered the 
summons, ‘‘ Tell Master Jack and Miss Sarah I wish to see them. 
So, Ned, you have let the widow know all about it, and she does 
not pout or look distrustful— that is a good symptom, at least.” 

‘‘ 1 would not marry a jealous woman, if 1 never had a wife.” 

*‘ Then you will never marry at all. Why, Dr. McBrain, it is in 
the nature of woman to be distrustful — to te jealous— to fancy 
things that are merely figments of the brain.” 

“ You know nothing about them, and would be wisest to be silent 
— but here are the young people already, to ask your pleasure.” 

‘‘ Sarah, my dear,” resumed the uncle in a kind and affectionate 
tone of voice, one that the old bachelor almost universally held 
toward that particular relative, ‘‘ 1 must give you a little trouble. Go 
into my room, child, and put up, in my smallest traveling bag, a 
Clean shire, a handkerchief or two, three or four collars, and a 
change all round, for a short expedition into the country.” 

“ Country! Do you quit us to-day, sir?” 

‘‘Within an hour, at latest,” looking at his watch. ‘‘If we 
leave the door at ten, we can reach Biberry before the inquest re- 
assembles. You told those capital beasts of yours, Ned, to come 
here?” 

“ 1 told Stephen to give them a hint to that effect. You may rely 
on their punctuality.” 

“ Jack, you had better be of our party. 1 go on some legal busi- 
ness of importance, and it may be well for you to go along, in ordei 
to pick up an idea or two.” 


32 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


“ And why not Michael also, sir? lie has as much need of ideas 
as 1 have myself.” 

A pretty general laugh succeeded, though Sarah, who was just 
quitting the room, did not join in it. She rather looked grave, as 
well as a little anxiously toward the last named neophyte of the law. 

“ Shall we want any books, sir?” demanded the nephew. 

“ Why, yes — we will take the Code of Procedure. One can no 
more move without that, just now, than he can travel in some coun- 
tries without a passport. Yes, put up the code, Jack, and we’ll pick 
it to pieces as we trot along.” 

“ There is little need of that, sir, if what they say be true. I 
hear, from all quarters, that it is doing that for itself, on a gallop.” 

“ Shame on thee, lad— 1 have halt a mind to banish thee to Phila- 
delphia! But put up the code; thy joke can’t be worse than that 
joke. As for Michael, he can accompany us if he wish it; but you 
must both be ready by ten. At ten, precisely, we quit my door, in 
the chariot of Phoebus, eh, Ned?” 

“ Call it what you please, so you do but go. Be active, young 
gentlemen, for we have no time to throw away. The jury meet 
again at two, and we have several hours of road before us. I will 
inn round and look at my slate, and be here by the time you are 
ready.” 

On this suggestion everybody was set in active motion. John 
went for his books, and to fill a small rubber bag for himself, Mi- 
chael did the same, and Sarah was busy in her uncle’s room. As for 
Dunscomb, he made the necessary disposition of some papers, wrote 
two or three notes, and held himself at the command of his friend. 
This affair was just the sort- of professional business in which he 
liked to be engaged. Not that he had any sympathy with crime, for 
he was strongly averse to all communion 'with rogues; but it ap- 
peared to him, by the representations of the doctor, to be a mission 
of mercy. A solitary, young, unfriended female, accused, or sus- 
pected, of a most heinous crime, and looking around for a protector 
and an adviser, was an object too interesting for a man of his tem- 
perament to overlook, under the appeal that had been made. Still 
he was not the dupe of his feelings. All his coolness, sagacity, 
knowledge of human nature, and professional attainments, were 
just as active in him as they ever had been in his life. Two things 
he understood well; that we are much too often deceived by out- 
ward signs, mistaking character by means of a fair exterior, and 
studied words, and that neither youth, beauty, sex, nor personal 
graces were infallible preventives of the worst offenses, on the one 
hand; and that, on the other, men nurture distrust, and suspicion, 
often, until it grows too large to be concealed, by means of their own 
propensity to feed the imagination and to exaggerate. Agninst these 
two weaknesses he was now resolved to arm himself; and when the 
whole party drove from the door, our counselor was as clear-headed 
and impartial, according to his own notion of the matter, as if he 
were a judge. 

By this time the young men had obtained a general notion of the 
business they were on, and the very first subject that was started, 
on quitting the door, was in a question put by John Wilmeter, in 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 33 

'Continuation of a discussion that had been commenced between 
himself and his friend. 

“ Mike and 1 have a little difference of opinion, on a point con- 
nected with this matter, which i could wish you to settle for us, as 
an arbiter. On the supposition that you find reason to believe that 
this young woman has really committed these horrible crimes, what 
would be your duty in the case— to continue to befriend her, and 
advise her, and use your experience and talents in order to shield 
her against the penalties of the law, or to abandon her at once?” 

“ In plain English, Jack, you and your brother student wish to 
know whether 1 am to act as a palladium, or as a runagate, in this 
affair. As neophytes in your craft, it may be well to suggest to 
you, in the first place, that 1 have not yet been fee’d. 1 never knew 
a lawyer's conscience trouble him about questons in casuistry, until 
he had received something down.” 

“ But you can suppose that something paid, in this case, sir, and 
then answer our question.” 

“ This is just the case in which 1 can suppose nothing of the sort. 
Had McBrain given me to understand 1 was to meet a client, with a 
well-lined purse, who was accused of arson and murder, i would 
have seen him married to two women at the same time, before 1 
would have budged. It’s the want of a fee that takes me out of 
town this morning.” 

“ And the same want, 1 trust, sir, will stimulate you to solve our 
difficulty.” 

The uncle laughed, and nodded his head, much as if he would 
say, ” Pretty well iovjyou ;” then he gave a thought to the point in 
professional ethics that had started up between his two students. 

“This is a very old question with the profession, gentlemen,” 
Dunscomb answered, a little more gravely. “ You will find men 
who maintain that the lawyer has, morally, a right to do whatever 
his client would do; that he puts himself in the place of the man he 
defends, and is expected to do everything precisely as if he were the 
accused party himself. I rather think that some vague notion, quite 
as loose as this, prevails pretty generally among what one may call 
the minor moralists of the profession.” 

** I confess, sir, that I have been given to understand that some 
such rule ought to govern our conduct,” said Michael Millington, 
who had been in Dunscomb’s office only for the last six months. 

“ Then you have been very loosely and badly instructed in the 
duties of an advocate, Mr. Michael. A more pernicious doctrine was 
never broached, or one better suited to make men scoundrels. Let 
a young man begin practice with such notions, and two or three 
thieves for clients will prepare him to commit petit larceny, and a 
case or two of perjury would render him an exquisite at an affidavit. 
No, my boys, here is your rule in this matter : an advocate has a 
right to do whatever his client has a right to do— not what his client 
would do. ” 

“ Surely, sir, an advocate is justified in telling his client to plead 
not guilty, though guilty; and in aiding him to persuade a jury to 
acquit him, though satisfied himself he ought to be convicted!” 

“ You have got hold of the great point in the case Jack, and one 
on which something may be said on both sides. The law is so in- 
• 2 


34 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


dulgent, as to permit an accused who has formally pleaded ‘ guilty/ 
thus making a distinct admission of his crime N to withdraw that 
plea, and put in another of ‘ not guilty/ Now/had the same per- 
son made a similar admission out of court, and under circumstances 
that put threats or promises out of the question, the law would have 
accepted that admission as the best possible evidence of his guilt. It 
is evident, therefore, that an understanding exists, to which the jus- 
tice of the country is a party, that a man. though guilty, shall get 
himself out of the scrape, if he can do so by legal means. No more 
importance is attached to the ‘ not guilty/ than to the ‘ not at 
home ’to a visitor; it being understood, by general convention, that 
neither means anything. Pome persons are so squeamish, as to 
cause their servants to say * they aie engaged/ by way of not telling 
a lie; but a lie consists in the intentional deception, and ‘ not in ’ 
and ‘ not guilty ’ mean no more, in the one case, than ‘ you can’t 
see my master/ and in the other, than ‘ I’ll run the chances of a 
trial/ ” 

“ After all, sir, this is going pretty near the wind, in the way of 
morals.” 

“ It certainly is. The Christian man who has committed a crime, 
ought not to attempt to deny it to his country, as he certainly can 
not to his God. Yet, nine hundred and ninety-nine in a thousand of 
the most strait-laced Christians in the community would so deny 
their guilt, if arraigned. We must not tax poor human nature too 
heavily, though 1 think the common law contains many things, 
originating in a jealousy of hereditary power, that it is great folly 
for us to preserve. But, while we are thus settling principles, we 
forget facts. You have told me nothing of your client, Ned/’ 

“ What would you wish to know?” 

“ Y r ou called her young, 1 remember; what may be her precise 
age?” 

“ That is more than I know; somewhere between sixteen and five- 
and twenty.” 

“ Five-a ml -twenty! Is she as old as that?” 

“ I rather think not; but 1 have been thinking much of her this 
morning, and I really do not remember to have seen another human 
being who is so difficult to describe.” 

“ She has eyes, of course?” 

“Two — and very expressive they are; though, sworn, I could 
not tell their color. ' ’ 

“ And hair?” 

“ In very great profusion; so much of it, and so very fine and 
shining, that it was the first thing about tier person which 1 ob- 
served. But 1 have not the least notion of its color.” 

“ Was it red?” 

“No; nor yellow, nor golden, nor black, nor brown— and yet a 
little of all blended together, 1 should say.” 

“ Ned, I’ll tell the Widow Updyke of thee, thou rogue?” 

“ Tell her, and welcome. She has asked me all these questions 
herself, this very morning.” 

“ Oh, she lias, has she? Umpli! Woman never changes her nat- 
ure. Y’ou can not say anything about the eyes, beyond the fact of 
their being very expressive?” 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


35 


“ And pleasing; more than that, even— engaging; winning, is a 
better term.” 

“ ISIed, you dog, you have never told the widow one-half !” 

“ Every syllable. 1 even went further, and declared 1 had never 
beheld a countenance that, in so short an interview, made so deep 
an impression on me. If 1 were not to see this young woman again, 
X should never forget the expression of her face— so spirited, so sad, 
so gentle, so feminine, and so very intelligent. It seemed to me to 
be what I should call an illuminated countenance.” 

“ Handsome?” 

“Not unusually so, among our sweet American girls, except 
through the expression. That was really wonderful; though, you 
will remember, 1 saw her under very peculiar circumstances.” 

“ Oh, exceedingly peculiar. Dear old soul; what a thump she 
has given him ! How were h3r mouth and her teeth ?■ — complexion, 
stature, figure, aud smile?” 

“ I can tell you little of all these. Her teeth are fine; for she gave 
me a faint smile, such as a lady is apt to give a man in quitting him, 
and I saw just enough of -the teeth to know that they are exceeding- 
ly fine. You smile, young gentlemen; but you may have a-care for 
your hearts, in good truth; for if this strange girl interests either of 
you one- halt a3 much as she has interested me, she will be either 
Mrs. John Wilmeter, or Mrs. Michael Millington, within a twelve- 
month.” 

Michael looked very sure that she would never fill the last situa- 
tion, which was already bespoke for Miss Sarah Wilmeter; and as 
for Jack, he laughed outright. 

“ We’ll tell Mrs. Updyke of him, when we get back, and break 
oft that affair, at least,” cried the uncle, winking at the nephew, 
but in & way his friend should see him; “then there will be one 
marriage the less in the world.” 

“ But is she a lady, doctor?” demanded John, after a short pause. 
** My wife must have some trifling claims in that way, I can assure 
you.” 

“ As for family, education, association and fortune, 1 can say 
nothing— 1 know nothing. Yet will 1 take upon myself to say she 
is a lady — and that, in the strict signification of the term.” 

“You are not serious now, Ned!” exclaimed the counselor, 
quickly. “ Not a bony fide, as some of our gentlemen have it? You 
cannot mean exactly what you say. ” 

“ 1 do, though; and that literally.” 

“ And she suspected of arson and murder! Where are her con- 
nections and friends— those who made her a lady? Why is she there 
alone, and, as you say, unfriended?” 

“So it seemed tome. You might as well ask nee why she is 
there, at all. 1 know nothing of all this. 1 heard plenty of reasons 
in the street, why she ought t l0 be distrusted— nay, convicted; for 
the feeling against her had got to be intense, before 1 left Biberry; 
but no one could tell me whence she came, or why she was there.” 

“ Did you learn her name?” 

“ Yes; that was in every mouth, and I could not help hearing it. 
She was called Mary Monson by the people of Biberry— but 1 much 
doubt if that be her real name.” 


36 


THE WAYS OF THE HOURo 


“ So, your angel in disguise will have to be tried under an ‘alias ^ 
That is not much in her favor, Ned. 1 shall ask no more questions, 
but wait patiently to see and judge foi myself.” 

The young men put a few more interrogatories, which were civ- 
illy answered, and then the subject was dropped. Well it has been 
said that “ God made the country: man made the town.” No one 
feels this more than he who has been shut up between walls of brick 
and stone for many months, on Ins first escape into the open, unfet- 
tered fields and winding pleasant roads. Thus was it now with 
Dunscomb. He had not been out of town since the previous sum- 
mer, and great was his delight at smelling the fragrance of tbe or- 
chards, and feasting his eyes on their beauties. All the other 
, charms of the season came in aid of these, and when the carriage 
drove into the long, broad, and we might almost say single street ot 
Biberry, Dunscomb in particular was in a most tranquil and pleas- 
ant state ot mind. He had come out to assist a friendless woman, 
cheerfully and without a thought of the sacrifice, either as to time 
or money, though in reflecting on all the circumstances he began to 
have his doubts of the wisdom of the step he had taken. Never- 
theless, ire preserved his native calmness ot manner, and coolness of 
head. 

Biberry was found to be in a state of high excitement. There were 
at least a dozen physicians collected there, all from the county, and 
five or six reporters had come from town. Rumors of all sorts were 
afloat, and Mary Monson was a name in every person’s mouth. She 
had not been arrested however, it having been deemed premature 
for that; but she was vigilantly watched, and two large trunks of 
which she was the mistress, as well as an oilskin-corered box of 
some size, if not absolutely seized, were so placed that their owner 
had no access to them. This state of things, however, did not seem 
to give the suspected girl any uneasiness; she was content with 
what a carpet-bag contained, and with which she said she was com- 
fortable. It was a question with the wiseacres whether she knew 
that she was suspected or not. 

Had Dunscomb yielded to McBrain’s solicitations, he would have 
gone at once to the house in which Mary Monson was now lodged, 
but he preferred adopting a different “course. He thought it the 
most prudent to be a looker-on, until after the next examination, 
which was now close at hand. Wary by long habit, and cool by 
temperament, he was disposed to observe the state of things before 
he committed himself. The presence of the reporters annoyed him; 
not that he stood in any dread of the low tyranny that is so apt to 
characterize this class of men, for no member of the bar had held 
them and .the puny efforts of many among them to build up and 
take away professional character, in greater contempt than he 
bad done; but he disliked to have his name mixed up with a 
cause of this magnitude, unless he had made up his mind to go 
through with it. In this temper,, then, no communication was 
held with Mary Monson, until they met, at the hour appointed 
for the inquest, in the court-house. 

The room was crowded, at least twice as many having collected on 
this occasion as had got togethei on the sudden call ot the previous 
examination. Dunscomb observed that the coroner looked grave. 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR* 3 ? 

like a man who felt he had important business on his hands, while- 
a stern expectation was the expression common to nearly all the 
others present. He was an utter stranger, himself, even by sight, to 
every being present, his own party and two or three of the reporter® 
excepted. These last no sooner observed him, however, than out 
came their little note-books, and the gold pens weTe at work, scrib- 
bling something. It was probably a sentence to say, “ We observed 
among the crowd Thomas Dunscomb, Esquire, the well-known coun- 
sel jrom the city;” but Dunscomb cared very little for such vulgar- 
isms, and continued passive. 

As soon as the inquest was organized, the coroner directed a phy- 
sician of the neighborhood to be put on the stand. It had gone forth 
that a “ city doctor” had intimated that neither of the skeletons was 
that of Peter Goodwin, and there was a common wish to confront 
him with a high country authority. It was while the medical man 
now in request was sent for, that McBrain pointed out to Dunscomb 
the person of Mary Monson. She sat in a corner different from 
that she had occupied the day before, seemingly for the same pur- 
pose, or that of being alone. Alone she was not, strictly, however; 
a respectable-looking female, of middle age, being at her side. This 
was a Mrs. Jones,,the wife of a clergyman, who had charitably offered 
the suspected young stranger a home under her own roof, pending 
the investigation. It was thought, generally, that Mary Monson 
had but very vague notions of the distrust that rested on her, it be- 
ing a part of the plan of those who were exercising all their wits to 
detect the criminal, that she was first to learn this fact in open court, 
and under circumstances likely to elicit some proofs of guilt. When 
Dunscomb learned this artifice, he saw how ungenerous and unmans 
ly it was, readily imagined a dozen signs of weakness that a female 
might' exhibit in such a strait, that had no real connection with crime, 
and felt a strong disposition to seek an interview, and put the sus- 
pected party on her guard. It was too late for this, however, just 
then ; and lie contented himself, for the moment, with studying such 
signs of character and consciousness as his native sagacity and long 
experience enabled him to detect. 

Although nothing could be more simple or unpretending than 
the attire of Mary Monson, it was clearly that of a lady. Every- 
thing about her denoted that station, or origin; though everything 
about her, as Dunscomb fancied, also denoted a desire to bring her- 
self down, as nearly as possible, to the level of those around her, 
most probably that she might not attract particular attention. Our 
lawyer did not exactly like this slight proof of management, and 
wished it were not so apparent. He could see the hands, feet, figure, 
hair, and general air of the female he was so strangely called on to 
make the subject of his investigations, but he could not yet see her 
face. The last was again covered with a cambric handkerchief, the 
hand which held it being ungloved. It was a pretty little American 
hand; white, well-proportioned, and delicate. It was clear, that 
neither its proportions nor its color had been changed by uses un- 
suited to its owner’s sex or years! But it had no ring, in this age 
of be-jeweled fingers. It was the left hand, moreover, and the 
fourth finger, like all the rest, had no ornament, or sign of matri- 
mony. He inferred from this, that the stranger was unmarried; one 


38 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


of the last things that a wife usually lays aside being her wedding- 
ring. The foot corresponded with the hand, and was decidedly tne 
smallest, best-formed, and best-decorated foot in Biberry. John 
W ilmeter thought it the prettiest he had ever seen. It was not stu- 
diously exhibited, however, but rested naturally and gracefully in 
its proper place. The figure generally, so far as a capacious shawl 
would allow of its being seen, was pleasing, graceful, and a little 
remarkable for accuracy of proportions, as well as of attire. 

Once or twice Mrs. Jones spoke to her companion; and it was 
when answering some question thus put, that Dunscomb first got a 
gtompse of his intended client's face. The handkerchief was partly 
removed, and remained so long enough to enable him to make a few 
brief observations. It was then that he felt the perfect justice of his 
friend’s description. It was an indescribable countenance, in all 
things but its effect; which was quite as marked on the lawyer, as 
it had been on the physician. Bui the arrival of Dr. Coe put an 
end to these observations, and drew all eyes on that individual, who 
was immediately sworn. The customary preliminary questions were 
put to this witness, respecting his profession, length of practice, res- 
idence, etc., when the examination turned more on the matter im- 
mediately under investigation. 

“You see those objects on the table, doctor?” said the coroner. 
“ What do you say they are?” 

“ Osm hominum: human bones, much defaced and charred by 
heat.” 

“ Do you find any proof about them of violence committed, be- 
yond the damage done by fire?” 

“ Certainly. There is the osfrontis of each fractured by a blow; a 
-common blow, as 1 should judge.” 

“ What do you mean, sir, by a common blow? An accidental, or 
ah intentional blow?” 

“ By common blow, I mean that one blow did the damage to both 
vranys” 

“ Cranyl — how do you spell that word, doctor? Common folks 
get put out by foreign tongues.” 

“ Cranys, in the plural, sir. We say cranmm, for one skull, and 
crany, for two.” 

“ 1 wonder what he would say for numskull?” whispered John 
to Michael. 

” Yes, sir; I understand you, now. 1 trust the reporters will get it 
, right.” 

“Oh! they never make any mistakes, especially in legal proceed- 
mgs,” quietly remarked Mr. ’Dunscomb to the doctor. “ In matters 
pt law and the constitution, they are of proof! Talk of letters on the 
constitution! What are equal to those that come to us, Uibernally , 
as one may say, from Washington?” 

“ Hibernially would be the better word,” answered McBrain, in 
the same under-tone. 

“ Y'ou ought to know; your grandfather was an Irishman, Ned, 
But listen to this examination.” 

“ And now, Doctor Coe, have the goodness to look at these skele- 
tons,” resumed the coroner, “and tell us whether they belong to 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 3# 

man, woman, or child. Whether They are the remains of adults, or 
of children.” 

“ Of adults, certainly. On that point, sir, 1 conceive there can be 
no doubt.” 

“ And as to the sex?” 

“ 1 should think that is equally clear. 1 have no doubt that one 
are the remains of Peter Goodwin, and the other those of his wife. 
Science can distinguish between the sexes, in ordinary cases, 1 
allow; but this is a case in which science is at fault, tor want of 
facts; and taking all the known circumstances into consideration, 
1 have no hesitation in saying that, according to my best judgment, 
those are the remains of the missing man and woman— man and 
wife.” 

“ Am 1 to understand that you lecognize the particular skeletons 
by any outward, visible proofs?” 

‘Yes; there is the stature. Both of the deceased were well 
known to me; and 1 should say, that making the usual allowance 
for the absence of the . musculi, the pellis, and other known sub 
stances—” 

“ Doctor, would it be just as agreeable to you to use the common, 
dialect?” demanded a shrewd-looking farmer, one of the jury, who 
appeared equally amused and vexed at the display of learning. 

“Certainly, sir — certainly, Mr. Blore; vnisculi means muscles, 
and pellis is the skin. Abstract the muscles and skin, and the other 
intermediate substances, from the bones, and the apparent stature 
would be reduced, as a matter of course. Making those allowances, 
1 see in those skeletons the remains of Peter and Dorothy Goodwin 
Of the fact, 1 entertain no manner of doubt.” 

As I)r. Coe was very sincere in what he said, he expressed him- 
self somewhat earnestly. A great many eyes were turned triumph- 
antly toward the stranger who had presumed to intimate that the 
bones of both the remains were those of women, when everybody 
in and about Biberry knew Peter Goodwin so well, and knew that 
his wife, it anything, was the taller of the two. No one in all that 
crowd doubted as to the tact, except McBrain and his friend; and 
the last doubted altogether on the faith of the doctor’s science. He 
bad never known bim mistaken, though often examined in court, 
and was aware that the bar considered him one of the safest and 
surest witnesses they could employ in all cases of controverted facts. 

Dr. Coe’s examination proceeded. 

“ Have you a direct knowledge of any of the circumstances con- 
nected with this fire?” demanded the coroner. 

“ A little, perhaps. 1 was called to visit a patient about mid- 
night, and was obliged to pass directly before the door of Goodwin’s 
house. The jury knows that it stood on a retired road, arid that 
one would not be likely to meet with any person traveling it, so 
early in the morning. I did pass, however, two men, who were 
walking very fast, and in the direction of Goodwin’s. 1 could not 
see their faces, nor did 1 know them by their figures and move- 
ments. As 1 see everybody, and know almost everybody, hereabouts,. 
I concluded they were strangers. About four, 1 was on my return 
along the same road, and as my sulky rose to the top of Windy 
Hill, 1 got a view of Goodwin’s house. The flames were just 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


40 

streaming out of the east end of the roof, and the little wing on that 
end of the building, in which the old folks slept, was in a bright 
blaze. The other end was not much injured; and 1 saw at ^n 
upper window the figure of a female — she resembled, as well as I 
could judge by that light, and at that distance, the young lady now 
present, and who is said to have occupied the chamber under the 
roof, in the old house, for some time past; though 1 can’t say I have 
ever seen her there, unless 1 saw her then, under the circumstances 
mentioned. The old people could not have been as ailing this spring 
as was common with them, as 1 do not remember to have been 
stopped by them once. They never were in the habit of sending 
for the doctor, but seldom let me go past the. door, without calling 
me in.” 

“ Did you see any one besides the figure of the female at the win- 
dow?” 

“Yes. There were two men beneath that window, and they 
appeared to me to be speaking to, or holding some sort of commu- 
nication with, the female. 1 saw gestures, and I saw one or two 
articles thrown out of the window. My view was only for a min- 
ute; and when 1 reached the house, a considerable crowd had col- 
lected, and I had no opportunity to observe, particularly in a scene 
of such confusion.” 

V Was the female still at the upper window, when you reached 
the house?” 

“ JNp. 1 saw the lady now present standing near the burning 
building, and held by a man — Peter Davidson, 1 think it was— who 
told me she wanted to rush into the house to look for the old 
folks.” 

“ Did you see any efforts of that sort in her?” 

“ Certainly. She struggled to get away from Peter, and acted 
like a person who wished to rush into the burning building.” 

** Were the struggles natural— or might they not have been 
affected?” 

“ They might. If it was acting, it was good acting. 1 have seen 
as good, however, in my life.” 

The doctor had a meaning manner, that said more than his words. 
He spoke very low — so low as not to be audible to those who sat in 
the further parts of the room; which will explain the perfect in- 
difference to his testimony, that was manifested by the subject of 
his remarks. An impression, however, was made on the jury, 
Vliich was composed of men much disposed to push distrust to 
demonstration. 

The coroner now thought it time to spring the principal mine, 
which had been carefully preparing during the recess in the investi- 
gation; and he ordered “Mary Monson” to be called — a witness 
who had been regularly summoned to attend, among the crowd of 
persons that had received similar notices. 


41 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


CHAPTER IV. 

My deeds upon my head ! I crave the law, 

The penalty and forfeit of my bond. 

Shylock. 

The eyes of Dunscomb were fastened intently on the female 
stranger, as she advanced to the place occupied by the witnesses. 
Her features denoted agitation, certainly; but he saw no traces of 
guilt. It seemed so improbable, moreover, that a young woman or 
her years and appearance should be guilty of so dark" an offense, 
and that for money, too, that all the chances were in favor of her 
innocence. Still, there were suspicious circumstances, out of all 
question, connected with her situation, and he was too much experi- 
enced in the strange and unaccountable ways of crime,, not to be 
slow to form his conclusions. 

The face of Mary Monson was now fully exposed; it being cus- 
tomary to cause female witnesses to remove their hats, in order that 
the jurors may observe their countenances. And what a counte- 
nance it was! Feminine, open, with scarce a trace of the ordinary 
passions about it, and illuminated from within, as we have already 
intimated. The girl might have been twenty, though she afterward 
stated her age to be. a little more than twenty-one— perhaps t.lie most 
interesting period of a female’s existence. The features were not 
particularly regular, and an artist might have discovered various 
drawbacks on her beauty, if not positive defects; but no earthly 
being could have quarreled with the expression. That was a mixt- 
ure of intelligence, softness, spirit, and feminine innocence, that 
did not fail to produce an impression on a crowd which had almost 
settled down into a firm conviction of herguill. Borne even doubled, 
and most of those present thought it very strange. 

The reporters began to write, casting their eyes eagerly toward 
this witness; and John Dunscomb, who sat near them, soon dis- 
covered that there were material discrepancies in their descriptions. 
These, however, were amicably settled by comparing notes; and 
when the accounts of that day’s examination appeared in the 
journals of the time, they were sufficiently consistent with each 
other; much more so, indeed, than with the truth in its severer 
aspects. There was no wish to mislead, probably ; but the whole 
system has the capital defect of making a trade of news. The his- 
tory of passing events comes to us sufficiently clouded and obscured 
by the most vulgar and least praiseworthy of all our lesser infirm- 
ities, even when left to take what may be termed its natural course; 
but, as soon as the money-getting principle is applied to it, facts 
become articles for the market, and go up and down, much as do 
other commodities, in the regular prices-current. 

Mary Monson trembled a little when sworn; but she had evi- 
dently braced her nerves for the trial. Women are very capable 
of self-command, even in situations as foreign to their habits as this, 
if they have time to compose themselves, and to come forward 
under the influence of resolutions deliberately formed. Buck was 


42 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


probably the state of mind of this solitary and seemingly unfriended 
young woman; for, though pale as death, she was apparently com- 
posed. We say unfriended — Mrs. Jones, herself, having given all 
her friends to understand that she h<vd invited the stranger to her 
house under a sense of general duty, and not on account of any 
private or particular interest she felt in her affairs. She was as 
much a stranger to her, as to every one else in the village. 

“ Will you be so good as to tell us your name, place of ordinary 
residence, and usual occupation?” asked the coroner, in a dry, cold 
manner, though not until he had offered the witness a seat, in com- 
pliment to her sex. 

If the face of Mary Monson was pale the instant before, it now 
flushed to scarlet. Tile tint that appears in the August evening sky, 
when heat-lightning illuminates the horizon, is scarce more bright 
than that which chased the previous pallid hue from her cheeks. 
Dunseomb understood her dilemma, and interposed. She was 
equally unwilling to tell her real name, and to give a false one, 
under the solemn responsibility of an oath. There is, probably, less 
of deliberate, calculated false-swearing, than of any other offense 
against justice; tew having the nerve, or the moral obtuseness, that 
is necessary to perjury. We do not mean by this, that all which 
legal witnesses say is true, or the half of it; for ignorance, dull 
imaginations working out solutions of half-comprehended proposi- 
tions, and the strong propensity we all feel to see things as we have 
expected to find them, in a measure disqualifies fully half of those 
on vvhom the law has devolved a most important duty, to discharge 
it with due intelligence and impartiality. 

“Asa member of the bar, 1 interfere in behalf of the witness,” 
said Dunseomb, rising. “ She is evidently unacquainted with her 
true position here, and consequently with her rights. Jack, get a 
glass of water for the young lady;” and never did Jack obey a re- 
quest of his uncle with greater alacrity. “ A witness cannot, with 
propriety, be treated as a criminal, or one suspected, without being 
apprised that the law does not require of those thus circumstanced, 
answers affecting themselves.” 

Dunseomb had listened more to his feelings than to his legal 
knowledge, in offering this objection, inasmuch as no very search- 
ing question had, as yet, been put to Mary Monson. This the coroner 
saw, and he did not fail to let it be understood that he was aware of 
the weakness of the objection. 

“ Coroners are not governed by precisely the same rules as ordinary 
committing magistrates,” he quietly observed, “ though we equally 
respect the rules of evidence. No witness is obliged to answer a 
question before an inquest, that will criminate himself, any more 
than at the Oyer and Terminer. If the lady will say she does not 
wish to tell her real name, because it may criminate her , 1 shall not 
press the question myself, or allow it to be pressed by others.” 

“ Very true, sir, but the law requires, in these preliminary pro- 
ceedings, no more than such accuracy as is convenient in making 
out the records. 1 conceive that in this particular case the question 
might be varied by asking, ‘ You are known by the name of Mary 
Monson, I believe?’ ” 

“ What great harm can it be to this youDg female to give her real 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


4 $ 

name, Mr. Dunscomb, as 1 understand you are that distinguished 
counselor, if she be perfectly innocent of the death of the Good- 
wins?” 

“ A perfectly innocent person may have good reasons for wishing 
to conceal her name. These reasons obtain additional force when 
we look around us, and see a committee of reporters, who stand 
ready to transmit all that passes to the press; but it might better 
serve the ends of justice to allow me to confer with the witness in 
private.” 

“ With all my heart, sir. Take her into one of the jury rooms, 
and 1 will put another physician on the stand. When you are 
through with your consultation, Mr. Dunscomb, we shall be ready 
to proceed with your client.” 

Dunscomb offered his arm to the girl, and led her through the 
crowd, while a third medical man was sworn. This witness cor- 
roborated all of Dr. Coe’s opinions, treating the supposition that 
both the skeletons were those of women with very little respect. It 
must be admitted that the suspected stranger lost a great deal of 
ground in tbe course of that half-hour. In the first place, the dis- 
cussion about the name was received very much as an admission of 
guilt ; for Dunscomb’s argument that persons who were innocent 
might have many reasons for concealing their names, did not carry 
much weight with the good people of Biberry. Then any doubts 
which might have been raised by McBrain’s suggestion concerning 
the nature of the skeletons, were effectually removed by the cor- 
roborating testimony of Dr. Short, who so fully sustained Dr. Coe. 
So much are the Americans accustomed to refer the decision of 
nearly all questions to numbers, it scarcely exaggerates the truth to 
say that, on the stand, the opinion of half a dozen country survey- 
ors touching a problem in geometry would be very apt to over- 
shadow that of a professor from West Point or old Yale. Majori- 
ties are the primum mobile of the common mind, and he who can 
get the greatest number on his side is very apt to be considered 
right, and to reap the benefits of being so. 

A fourth and a fifth medical man were examined, and they con- 
curred in the opinions of Dr. Coe and his neighbors. All gave it as 
the result of their inquiries, that they believed the tw T o skulls . had 
been broken with the same instrument, and lhat the blow, if it did 
not cause immediate death, must have had the effect to destroy 
consciousness. As regards the sex, the answers were given in a 
tone somewhat supercilious. 

“ Science is a very good thing in its place,” observed one of these 
last witnesses; “but "science is subject to known facts. We all 
know that Peter Goodwin and his wife lived in that house; we all 
know that Dorothy Goodwin was a large woman, and that Peter 
Goodwin was a small man— that they were about of a height, in 
fact— and that these skeletons very accurately represent their respect- 
ive statures. We also know that the house is burned, that the old 
couple are missing, that ihese bones were found in a wing in which 
they slept, and that no other bones have been found there. Now, 
to my judgment, these facts carry as much weight, ay, even more 
weight, than any scientific reasoning in the premises. I conclude. 


44 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


therefore, that these are the remains of Peter and Dorothy Goodwin 
— have no doubt that they are, indeed.” 

“ Am 1 permitted to ask this witness a question, Mr. Coroner?” 
demanded Dr. McBrain. 

“ With all my heart, sir. The jury wishes to ascertain all they 
can, and our sole object is justice. Our inquests are not very rigid 
as to forms, and you are welcome to examine the witness as much 
as you please.” 

“ You knew Goodwin?” asked McBrain, directly of the witness. 

“ I did, sir; quite well.” 

“ Had he all his teeth, as you remember?” 

“ I think he had.” 

“ On the supposition that his front upper teeth were all gone, and 
that the skeleton you suppose to be his had all the front upper teeth, 
would you still regard the facts you have mentioned as better, or 
even as good proof, as the evidence of science, which tells us that 
the man who has lost his teeth can not possess them?” 

“ 1 scarcely call that a scientific fact, at all, sir. Any one may 
judge of that circumstance, as well as a physician. If it were as 
you say, 1 should consider the presence of the teeth pretty good 
pi oof that the skeleton was lhat of some other person, unless the 
teeth were the work of a dentist.” 

“ Then why not put any other equally sure anatomical fact in op- 
position to what is generally supposed, in connection with the wing, 
the presence of the men, and all the other circumstances you have 
mentioned?” 

” If there were any other sure anatomical fact, so 1 would. But, 
in the condition in which those remains are, I do not think the best 
anatomist could say that he can distinguish whether they belonged 
to a man or to a woman.” 

“ I confess that the case has its difficulties,” McBrain quietly an- 
swered. “ Still I incline to my first opinion. I trust, Mr. Coroner, 
that the skeletons will be carefully preserved, so leng as there may 
be any reason to continue these legal inquiries?” 

“ Certainly, sir. A box is made for that purpose, and they will 
be carefully deposited in it, as soon as the inquest adjourns for the 
day. It is no unusual thing, gentlemen, for doctors to disagree.” 

This was said with a smile, and had the effect to keep the peace. 
McBrain, however, had all the modesty of knowledge, and was 
never disposed to show T off his superior attainments in the faces of 
those who might be supposed to know less than himself. Nor was 
he, by any means, certain of his fact; though greatly inclined to be- 
lieve that both the skeletons were those of females. The heat had 
been so powerful as to derange, in some measure, if nol entirely to 
deface, his proofs; and he was not a man to press a fact, in a case 
of this magnitude, without sufficient justification. All he now 
wanted, was to reserve a point that might have a material influence 
hereafter, in coming to a correct conclusion. 

It was fully an hour before Dunscomb returned, bringing Mary 
Monson on his arm. John followed the latter closely, for, though 
not admitted to the room in which this long private conference had 
been held, he had not ceased to pace the gallery in front of its door 
during the whole time. Dunscomb looked very grave, and, as 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


45 

McBrain thought, he was very expert in interpreting the language 
of his friend’s countenance, disappointed. The girl herself had evi- 
dently been weeping, and that violently. There was a paleness of the 
face, and a tremor in the frame, too, that caused the observant phy- 
sician to suppose that, for the first time, she had been made to com- 
prehend that she was the object of such dire distrust. No sooner 
were the two in their old seats, than the coroner prepared to renew 
the suspended examination. 

“ Witness,” repeated that functionary with marked formality, 
“ what is your name?” 

The answer was given in a tremulous voice, but with sufficient 
readiness, as if previously prepared. 

”1 am known, in and around Biberry, by the name of Mary 
Monson.” 

The coroner paused, passed a hand over his brow, mused a mo- 
ment, and abandoned a half-formed determination he had made, to 
push this particular inquiry as far as he -could. To'state the truth, 
he was a little afraid of Mr. Thomas Dunscomb, whose reputation 
at the bar was of too high a character to have escaped-his notice. 
On the whole, therefore,, he decided to accept the name of Mary 
Monson, reserving the right of the State to inquire further, here- 
after. 

“ Where do you reside?” 

** At present, in this place — lately, in the family of Peter Good- 
win, whose remains are supposed to be in this room.” 

“ How long had you resided in that family*?” 

‘‘Nine weeks, to a day. I arrived in the morning, and the .fire 
occurred at night.” 

‘‘Relate all that you know concerning that fire, if you. please, 
miss — I call you miss, supposing you to be unmarried?” 

Mary Monson merely made a slight inclination of her head, as one 
acknowledges that a remark is heard, and understood. This did 
not more than half satisfy the coroner, his wife, for reasons of her 
own, having particularly desired him to ask the ‘‘ Monson girl” 
when she was put on the stand whether she was or was not married. 
But it was too late just then to ascertain this interesting fact, and 
the examination proceeded. 

“ Relate all that you know concerning the fire if you please, 
ma’am.” 

“ 1 know very little. 1 was awakened by a bright light— arose, 
and dressed myself as well as I could, and was about to descend the 
stairs, when 1 found 1 was too late. I then went to a window, and 
intended to throw my bed out, and let myself down on it, when two 
men appeared, and raised a ladder by which I got safely out.” 

“Were any of your effects saved?” 

“ All, 1 believe. The same two persons entered my room, and 
passed my trunks, box, and carpet-bag, writing-desk, and other arti- 
cles, out of; the room, as well as most of its furniture. It was the 
part of the building last on fire, and it was safe entering the room I 
occupied, for near half an hour afler 1 escaped.” 

“ How long had you Known the Goodwins?” 

“ From the time when 1 first came to live in their house.” s 


46 


THE WAYS OE THE HOUR* 


“ Did you pass the evening of the night of the fire in their com- 
pany?” 

“ 1 did not. Very little of my time was passed in their company, 
unless it was at meals.” 

This answer caused a little stir among the audience, of whom 
much the larger portion thought it contained an admission to be 
noted. Why should not a young woman who lived in a house so 
much apart fiom a general neighborhood, not pass most of her time 
in the company of those with wnom she dwelt? “ If they were 
good enough to live with, 1 should think they might be good enough 
to associate with,” whispered one of the most active female talkers 
of Biberry, out in a tone so loud as to be heard by all near her. 

This was merely yielding to a national and increasing suscepti- 
bility to personal claims; it being commonly thought aristocratic to 
refuse to associate with everybody, When the person subject to re- 
mark has any apparent advantages to render such association de- 
sirable. All others may do as they please. 

‘‘You did not, then, make one of the family regularly, but were 
there for some particular purpose of your own?” resumed the 
coroner. 

“ 1 think, sir, on reflection, that you will see this examination is 
taking a very irregular course,” interposed Dunscomb. “ It is more 
like an investigation for a commitment, than an inquest.” 

“ The law allows the freest modes of inquiry in all such cases, 
Mr. Dunscomb. Recollect, sir, there nave been arson and murder 
— two of the highest crimes known to the books.” 

“ I do not forget it; and recognize not only all your rights, sir, 
but your duties. Nevertheless, this young lady has rights, too, and 
is to be treated distinctly in one of two characters; as a witness, or 
as a party accused. If in the latter, I shall at once advise her to 
answer no more questions in this state of the case. My duty, as her 
counsel, requires me to say as much.” 

“ She has, then, regularly retained you, Mr. Dunscomb?” the 
coroner asked, with iuterest. 

“ That, sir, is a matter between her and myself. 1 appear here 
as counsel, and shall claim the rights of one. 1 know that you can 
carry on this inquest without my interference, if you see fit; but no 
one can exclude the citizen from the benefit of advice. Even the 
new code, as extravagant and high-flying an invention as ever came 
from the misguided ingenuity of man, will allow of this.” 

' ‘ There is no wish, Mr. Dunscomb, to put any obstacles in your 
way. Let every man do his whole duty. Your client can certainly 
refuse to answer any questions she may please, on the ground that 
the answer may tend to criminate herself; and so may any one 
else.” 

‘‘ 1 beg your pardon, sir; the law is still more indulgent in these 
preliminary proceedings. A party who knows himself to be sus- 
pected, has a right to evade questions that may militate against his 
interests; else would the boasted protection which the law so far 
throws around every one, that he need not be his own accuser, be- 
come a mere pretense.” 

“ 1 shall endeavor to put my questions in such a way as to give 
her the benefit of all her rights. Miss Monson, it is said that you 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 47 

have been seen, since the fire, to have some gold in your possession; 
have you any objection to let that gold be seen by the jury?”- 

“ None in the world, sir. I have a few gold pieces — here they are, 
in my purse. They do not amount lo much, either in numbers or 
value. li:ou are at liberty to examine them as much as you please.” 

Dunscomb had betrayed a little uneasiness at this question ; but 
the calm, steady manner in which the young woman answered, and 
the coolness with which she put her purse into the coroner’s hand, 
reassured, or rather surprised him. He remained silent, therefore, 
interposing no objection to the examination. 

“ Here are seven halt eagles, two quarter-eagles, and a strange 
coin that 1 do not remember ever to have seen bef ore/ ’ said the 
cororner, “ What do you call this piece, Mr. Dunscomb?” 

“ 1 can not tell you, sir; 1 do not remember ever to have seen the 
coin before, myself. ’ ’ 

“ It is an Italian coin, of the value of about twenty dollars, they 
fell me,” answered Mary, quietly. ” I think it is called after the 
reigning sovereign, whoever he may be. I got it, in exchange for 
some of our own money, from an emigrant from Europe, and kept 
it as a thing a little out of the common way.” 

The simplicity, distinctness, not to say nerve, with which this was 
said, placed Dunscomb still more at his ease, and he now freely let 
the inquiry take its course. All this did. not prevent his being as- 
tonished that one so young, and seemingly so friendless, should 
manifest so much coolness and self-possession, under circumstances 
so very trying. Such was the fact, however; and he was fain to 
await further developments, in order better to comprehend the char- 
acter of his client. 

“ Is Mrs. Pope present?” inquired the coroner. “ The lady who 
told us yesterdaf she had seen the specie of the late Mrs. Goodwin, 
during the life-time of the latter?” 

It was almost superfluous to ask if any particular person were 
present; as nearly all Biberry were in, or about, the court-house. Up 
started the widow, therefore, at this appeal, and coming forward 
with alacrity, she was immediately sworn, which she had not been 
the previous day, and went on the stand as a regular witness. 

“ Your name?” observed the coroner. 

“ Abigail Pope— folks write ‘ relict of John Pope, deceased,’ in 
all my law papers.” 

“ Very well, Mrs. Pope; the simple name will suffice tor the pres- 
ent purposes. Do you reside in this neighborhood?” 

“In Biberry. 1 was born, brought up, married, became a 
•widow, and still dwell, all within half-a-mile of this spot. My 
maiden name was Dickson.” 

Absurd aud forward as these answers may seem to most persons, 
they had an effect on the investigation that was then going on in 
Biberry. Most of the audience saw, and felt, the difference be- 
tween the frank statements of the present witness, and the reserve 
manifested by the last. 

“ Now, why couldn’t that Mary Monson anwser all these questions, 
just as well as Abigail Pope?” said one female talker to a knot of 
listeners. “ She has a glib enough tongue in her head, if she only 
sees fit to use it! I’ll engage no one can answer more readily, when 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


48 

she wishes to let a thing out. There’s a dieadful history behind the 
curtain, in my judgment, about that same young woman, could a 
body only get at it. ” 

“ Mr. Sanford will get at it, before he has done with her, I’ll en- 
gage,” answered a friend. “ I have heard it said he is the most-in- 
vestigating coroner in the State, when he sets about a case in good 
earnest. He’ll be very apt to make the most of this, for we never 
have had anything one-half so exciting in Biberry, as these mur- 
ders! 1 have long thought we were rather out of the way of the 
rest of the world, until now; but our time has come, and w 7 e sha’n’t 
very soon hear the last of it!” 

“ It’s all in the papers, already!” exclaimed a third. “ Biberry 
looks as grand as York, or Albany, in the columns of every paper 
from town, this morning! 1 declare it did me good to see our little 
.place holding up its head among the great of the earth, as it might 
be—” 

What else, in the way of local patriotism, may have escaped this 
individual, can not now be known, the coroner drawing oft' her 
auditors, by the question next put to the widow. 

“ Did you ever see any gold coins in the possession of the late 
Mrs. Goodwin?” asked that functionary. 

“ Several times— 1 don’t know but I might say often. Five or six 
times, at least. 1 used to. sew for the old lady, and you know how 
it is when a body works, in that way, in a family — it’s next things 
1 do suppose, to being a doctor, so far as secrets go.” 

“ Should you know any of that coin were you to see it again, 
Mrs. Pope?” 

“ 1 think 1 might. There’s one piece, in partic’lar, that 1 suppose 
1 should know, anywhere. It’s a wonderful looking piece of money, 
and true Calif orny, I conclude.” 

“Did any of Mrs. Goodwin’s gold coins bear a resemblance to 
this?” showing a half-eagle. 

“ Yes, sir— that’s a five-dollar piece— I’ve had one of them my- 
self, in the course of my life.” 

“ Mrs. Goodwin had coins similar to this, I then understand you 
to say?” 

“ She had as many as fifty, 1 should think. Altogether, she told 
me she had as much as four hundred dollars in that stocking! 1 
remember the sum, for it sounded like a great deal for anybody to 
have, who wasn’t a bank, like. It quite put me in mind of the 

'place ers.” 

“Was there any coin like this?” showing the widow the Italian 
piece. 

“ That’s the piece! I’d know it among a thousand! I had it in 
my hands as much as five minutes, trying to read the Latin on it, 
and make it out into English. All the rest was American gold, the 
old lady told me; but this piece she said was foreign.” 

This statement produced a great sensation in the court-room. A1 
though Mrs. Pope was flippant, a gossip, and a little notorious for 
meddling with her neighbors’ concerns, no one suspected her of 
fabricating such a story, under oath. The piece of gold passed from 
juror to juror; and each man among them felt satisfied that he 
would know the coin again, after an interval of a few weeks. Duns- 


48 > 


THE WAYS OF THEf HOUR. 

comb probably put less faith in this bit of testimony, than any oilier 
person present; and he was curious to note its effect on his client. 
To his great surprise, she betrayed no uneasiness; her countenance 
maintaining a calm that he now began to apprehend denoted a 
practiced art; and he manifested a desire to examine the piece of 
gold for himself. It was put in his hand, and he glanced at its 
face a little eagerly. It was an unusual coin; but it had no defect 
or mark that might enable one to distinguish between it and any 
other piece of a similar impression. The coroner interpreted the 
meaning of his eye, and suspended the examination of the widow, 
to question Mary Monson herself. 

“ Your client sees the state of the question, Mr. Dunscomb,” he 
said; “ and you will look to her rights. Mine authorize me, as 1 
understand them, to inquire of her concerning a few facts in relation 
to this piece of money.” 

“ 1 will answer your questions, sir, without any hesitation,” tire 
accused replied, with a degree of steadiness that Dunscomb deemed 
astonishing. 

“ How long has this piece of gold been in your possession, if you 
please, miss?” 

About a twelvemonth. I began to collect the gold 1 have, very 
nearly a year since.” 

** Has it been in your possession, uninterruptedly, all that time?’* 

“ So far as I know, sir, it has. A portion of the time, and a large 
portion of it, it has not been kept in my purse; but I should think 
no one could have meddled with it, when it has been elsewhere.” 

“ Have you anything to remark on the testimony just given?” 

“ It is strictly true. Poor Mrs. Goodwin certainly had the store 
of gold mentioned by Mrs. Pope, for she once showed it to me. 1 
rather think she was fond of such things; and had a pleasure in 
counting her hoards, and showing them to other persons. 1 looked 
over her coins; and finding she was fond of those that are a little 
uncommon, l gave her one or two of those that 1 happened to own. 
Ko doubt, Mrs. Pope saw the counterpart of this piece, but surely 
not the piece itself.” 

“ 1 understand you to say, then, that Mrs. Goodwin had a gold 
coin similar to this, which gold coin came from yourself. What 
did Mrs. Goodwin allow you in the exchange?” 

“ Sir?” • 

“ How much did you estimate the value of that Italian piece at,, 
and in what money did Mrs. Goodwin pay you for it? It is neces- 
sary to be particular in these cases.” 

“ She returned me nothing for the coin, sir. It was a present 
from me to her, and of coarse not to be paid for.” 

This answer met with but little favor. It did not appear to the 
•people of Biberry at all probable that an unknown, and seemingly 
friendless young woman, who had been content to dwell two months 
in the “ garret-room ” of the ‘‘ old Goodwin house,” faring none of 
the best, certainly, and neglecting so many superior tenements and 
tables that were to be met with on every side of her, would be very 
likely to give away a piece of gold of that unusual size, it is true, 
we are living in a marvelous age, so far as this metal is concerned; 
but the Californian gold had not then arrived in any great quantity.. 


■ 50 . 


THE WAYS OE THE. HOUR. 

and tlie people of the country are little accustomed to see anything 
but silver and paper, which causes them to attach an unwonted 
value to the more precious metal. liven the coroner took this view 
of the matter; and Dunscomb saw that the explanation just made 
by his client was thought to prove too much. 

“ Are you in the habit, miss, of giving away pieces of gold?” 
asked one of the jurors. 

“ That question is improper,” interposed Mr. Dunscomb. “ No 
one can have a right to put it.” 

The coroner sustained this objection, and no answer was given. 
As Mrs. Pope had suggested that others, besides herself, had seen 
Mrs. Goodwin’s stocking, four more witnesses were examined to 
this one point. They were all females, who had been admitted by 
the deceased, in the indulgence of her passion, to feast their eyes 
with a sight of her treasure. Only one, however, of these four pro- 
fessed to have any recollection of the particular coin that had now 
become, as it might be, the pivoting point in the inquiry ; and her 
recollections were by no means as clear as those of the widow. She 
thought she had seen such a piece of gold in Mrs. Goodwin’s posses- 
sion, though she admitled she was not allowed to touch any of the 
money, which was merely held up, piece by piece, before her ad- 
miring eyes, in the hands of its proper owner. It was in this state 
of the inquiry that Dunscomb remarked to the coroner, “ that it 
was not at all surprising a woman who was so fond of exposing 
her treasure should be robbed and murdered 1” This remark, how- 
over, failed of its intended effect, in consequence of the manner in 
which suspicion had become riveted, as it might be, through the 
testimony of Mrs. Pope, on the stranger who had so mysteriously 
come to lodge with the Goodwins. The general impression now ap- 
peared to be that the whole matter had been previously arranged, 
and that the stranger had come to dwell in the house expressly to 
obtain facilities for the commission cf the crime. 

A witness wtio was related to the deceased, who was absent from 
home, but had been told, by means of the wires, to return, and 
who had intimated an intention to comply, was still wanting; and 
the inquest was again adjourned for an hour, in order to allow of 
the arrival of a stage from town. During this interval, Dunscomb 
ascertained how strongly the current was setting against his client. 
A hundred little circumstances were cited, in confirmation of sus- 
picions that had now gained a firm footing, and which were so 
nearly general as to include almost every person of any consequence 
in the place. What appeared strangest to Dunscomb was the com- 
posure of the young girl who was so likely to be formally accused 
of crimes so heinous. He had told her of the nature of the distrust 
that was attached to her situation, and she received his statement 
with a degree of emotion that, at first, had alarmed him. But an 
unaccountable calmness soon succeeded this burst, of feeling, and he 
had found it necessary to draw confidence in the innocence of his 
client from that strangely illuminated countenance, to study which 
was almost certain to subdue a man by its power. While thus gaz- 
ing at the stranger, he could not believe her guilty; but, while re- 
flecting on all the facts of the case, he saw how difficult it might 
be to persuade others to enteitain the same opinion. Nor were there 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 51 

circumstances wanting to shake his own faith in expression, sex, 
years, and all the other probabilities. Mary Monson had declined 
entering at all into any account of her previous life; evaded giving 
her real name even to him; carefully abstained from all allusions 
that might furnish any clew to her former place of abode, or to any 
fact that would tend to betray her secret. 

At the appointed hour the stage arrived, bringing the expected 
wilness. His testimony went merely to corroborate the accounts 
concerning the little hoard of gold that his kinswoman had undeni- 
ably possessed, and to the circumstance (hat she always kept it in a 
particular drawer of her bureau. The bureau had been saved, for it 
did not stand in the sleeping-room of the deceased, but had formed 
a principal embellishment of her little parlor, and the money was 
not in it. What was more, each drawer was carefully locked, but 
no keys were to be found. As these were articles not likely to be 
melted under any heat to which they might have been exposed, a 
careful but fruitless search had been made for them among the ruins. 
They were nowhere to be seen. 

About nine o’clock in the evening, the jury brought in the result 
of their inquest. It was a verdict of murder in the first degree, 
committed, in the opinion of the jurors, by a female who was known 
by the name of Mary Monson. With the accusation of arson, the 
coroner’s inquest, as a matter of course, had no connection. A writ 
was immediately issued, and the accused arrested. 


CHAPTER V. 

“ It was the English,” Kasper cried, 

“ Who put the French to rout; 

But what they killed each other for, 

1 could not well make out. 

But everybody said,” quoth he, 

“ That ’twas a famous victory.” 

• Southey. 

The following day, after an early breakfast, Dunscomb and his 
friend the doctor were on their way back to town. The former had 
clients and courts, and the latter patients, who were not to be neg- 
lected, to say nothing of the claims of Sarah and Mrs. Upclyke, 
John and Michael remained at Biberry; the first being detained there 
by divers commissions connected with the comforts and treatment 
of Mary Monson, but still more by his own inclinations; and the 
last remaining, somewhat against his wishes, as a companion to the 
brother of her who so strongly drew him back {o New York. 

As the commitment was for offenses so serious, crimes as grave as 
any known to the law, bail would not have been accepted, could any 
have been found. We ought not to speak with too much confidence, 
however, on this last point; for Dr. McBrain, a man of very hand- 
some estate, the result of a liberal profession steadily and intelligent- 
ly pursued, was more than half disposed to offer himself for one of 
the sureties, and to go and find a second among his friends. Noth- 
ing, indeed, prevented his doing so, but Dunscomb’s repeated as- 
surances that no bondsmen would be received. Even charming 
young women, when they stand charged with murder and arson, 


' 52 . 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


must submit to be incarcerated, ud til their innocence is established 
in due form of law; or, what is the same thing, in effect, until the 
caprice, impulses, ignorance, or corruption of a jury acquits them. 

The friends did not entirely agree in their manner of viewing tlfis 
affair. The doctor was firmly^impressed with the conviction of 
Mary Monson’s innocence; while Dunscomb, more experienced in 
the ways of crime and the infirmities of the human heart, had his 
misgivings. So many grounds of suspicion had occurred, or been 
laid open to his observation, during the hour of private communica- 
tion, that it was not easy for one who had seen so much of the worst 
side of human nature, to cast them oft under the mere influence of 
a graceful form, winning manner, and bright countenance. Then, 
the secondary facts, well established, and, in one important particu- 
lar, admitted by the party accused, were not of a character to be 
overlooked. It often happens, and Dunscomb well knew it, that 
innocence appears under a repulsive exterior, while guilt conceals 
itself in forms and aspects so fair, as to deceive all but the wary and 
experienced. 

“1 hope that the comfort of Miss Monson has been properly 
attended to, since she must be confined for a few days,” said 
McBrain, while he took a last look at the little jail, as the carriage 
passed the brow of a hill. “ Justice can ask no more than security.” 

“ It is a blot on the character of the times, and on this country in 
particular,” answered Dunscomb, coldly; “ that so little attention 
is paid to the jails. We are crammed with false philanthropy in 
connection with convicted rogues, who ought to be made to feel the 
penalties of their offenses; while we are not even just in regard to 
those who are only accused, many of whom are really innocent. 
But for my interference, this delicate and friendless girl would, in 
all probability, have been immured in a common dungeon.” 

“ What! before her guilt is established?” 

“ Relatively, her treatment after conviction would be far more 
humane than previously to that event. Comfortable, well-furnished, 
but secure apartments, ought to be provided for the accused in 
every county in the State, as acts of simple justice,- before another 
word of mawkish humanity is uttered on the subject of the treat- 
ment of recognized criminals. It is wonderful what a disposition 
there is among men to run into octaves, in everything they do, for- 
getting that your true melody is to be found only in the simpler and 
more natural notes. There is as much of tb e falsetto nowadays in 
philanthropy as in music.” 

“ And this poor girl is thrust into a dungeon?” 
v ‘‘No; it is not quite as bad as that. The jail has one decent 
apartment, that was fitted up tor the comfort of a prize-fighter, who 
was confined in it not long since; and as the room is sufficiently 
secure, 1 have persuaded the jailer's wife to put Mary Monson in it. 
Apart from loss of air and exercise, and the happiness of knowing 
herself respected and beloved, the girl will not be very badly off 
there. I dare say, the room is quite as good as that she occupied 
under the roof of those unfortunate Goodwins.” 

“ How strange that a female of her appearance should have been 
the inmate of such a place l She does not seem to want money, 
either. You saw the gold she had in her purse?” 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR, 53 

“ Ay;- it were better had that gold not been there, or not seen. I 
Sincerely wish it had been nothing but silver.” 

“You surely do not agree with that silly woman, the Widow 
Pope, as they call her, in believing that she has got the money of 
those persons who have been murdered?” 

“ On that subject, I choose to suspend my opinion — I may, or 1 
may not, as matters shall turn up. She has money; and in sufficient 
quantity to buy herself out of jeopardy. At least, she offered me a 
lee of a hundred dollars, in good city paper.” 

“ Which you did not take, Tom?” 

“ Why not? It is my trade, and 1 live by it. Why not take her 
fee, if you please, sir? Does the Widow Updyke teach you such 
doctrines? Will you drive about town for nothing? Why not take 
her fee. Master Ned?” 

“ Why not, sure enough! That girl has bewitched me, 1 believe; 
and that is the solution.” 

“ I’ll tell you what, Ned, unless there is a stop put to this folly, 
I’ll make Mrs. Updyke acquainted with the whole matter, and put 
an end to nuptials No. 3. Jack is head and ears in love, already; 
and here you are flying off at a tangent from all your engagements 
and professions, to fall at the feet of an unknown girl of twenty, 
who appears before you, on a first interview, in the amiable light 
of one accused of the highest crimes.” 

‘ ‘ And of which 1 no more believe her guilty than 1 believe you 
to be guilty of them.” 

“ Umph! ‘ Time will show;’ which is the English, I suppose, of 
the * nous , verrons ’ chat is flying about in the newspapers. Y r e,s, 
she has money to buy three or four journals, to get up a ‘ sympathy ’ 
in her behalf when her acquittal would be almost certain, if her 
trial were not a legal impossibility. I am not sure it is not her safest 
course, in the actual state of the facts.” 

“ Wquld you think, Dunscomb, of advising any one who looked 
up- to you for counsel, to take such a course?” 

“Certainly not — and you know it, well enough, McBrain; but 
that does not lessen, or increase, the chances of the expedient. The 
journals have, greatly weakened their own power, by the manner in 
which they have abused it; but enough still remains to hoodwink, 
not to say to overshadow, justice. The law is very explicit and far- 
sighted as to the consequences of allowing any one to influence the 
public mind in matters of its own administration; but in a country 
like this, in which the virtue and intelligence of the people are said 
to be the primum mobile in everything, there is no one to enforce the 
ordinances that the wisdom of our ancestors has bequeathed to us. 
Any editor of a newspaper who publishes a sentence reflecting on 
the character or rights of a party to a pending suit, is guilty, at 
common law, of what the books call a ‘ libel on the courts of justice,’ 
and can be punished for it, as for any other misdemeanor; yet, you 
can see for yourself, how little such a provision, healthful and most 
wise — nay, essential as it is to justice — is looked down by the mania 
which exists, of putting everything into print. When one remem- 
bers lhat very little of what he reads is true, it is iearful to reflect 
that a system, of which the whole merit depends on its power to ex- 
tract facts, and to do justice on their warranty, should be com- 


54 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


pletely overshadowed by another contrivance which, when stripped 
oi its pretension, and regarded in its real colors, is nothing more 
than one of the ten thousand schemes to make money that surround 
us, with a little higher pretension than common to virtue.” 

“ ' Completely overshadowed >j are strong -words, Dunscomb!” 

“ Perhaps they are, and they may need a little qualifying. Over- 
shadowed often— much too often, however, is not a particle stronger 
than 1 am justified in using. "Every one, who thinks at all, sees 
and feels the truth of this; but here is the weak side of a popular 
government. The laws are enforced by means of public virtue, and 
public virtue, like private virtue, is very frail. We all are willing 
enough to admit the last, as regards our neighbors at least, while 
there seems to exist, in most minds, a species of idolatrous venera- 
tion for the common sentiment, as sheer a quality of stiaw, as any 
image of a lover drawn by the most heated imagination of sixteen.” 

“ You surely do not disregard public poinion, Tom, or set it 
down as unworthy of all respect!” 

“ By no means; if you mean that opinion which is the result of 
deliberate- judgment, and has a direct connection with our religion, 
morals, and manners. That is a public opinion to which we all 
ought to defer, when it is fairly made up, and has been distinctly 
and independently pronounced; most especially when it comes from 
high quarters, and not from low. But the country is full of simu- 
lated public opinion, in the first place, and it is not always easy to 
tell the false from the true. Yes, the country is full of what 1 shall 
call an artificial public opinion, that has been got up to effect a 
purpose, and to that no wise man will defer, if he can help it. Now, 
look at our scheme of administering justice. Twelve men taken 
out of the bosom of the community, by a species of lottery, are set 
apart to pronounce on your fortune, or mine— nay, to utter the fear- 
ful words of ‘ guilty,’ or ‘ not guilty.’ All the accessaries of this 
plan, as they exist here, make against its success. In the first place, 
the jurors are paid, and that just enough to induce the humblest’on 
the list to serve, and not enough to induce the educated and intelli- 
gent. It is a day-laborer’s wages, and the day-laborer will be most 
likely to profit by it. Men who are content to toil for seventy-five 
cents a day are very willing to serve on juries for a dollar; w r hile 
those whose qualifications enable them to obtain enough to pay their 
fines, disregard the penalty, and stay away.” 

” Why is not an evil as flagrant as this remedied? 1 should think 
the whole bar would protest against it.” 

“ With what result? Who cares for the bar? Legislators alone 
can change this system, and men very different from those who, are 
now sent must go to the legislature, before one is found, honest 
enough, or bold enough, to get up and tell the. people they are not 
all fit to be trusted. No, no; this is not the way of the hour. We 
have a cycle in opinion to make, and it may be that when the round 
is fairly made, men may come back to their senses, and perceive the 
necessity of fencing in justice by some of the useful provisions that 
we are now so liberally throwing away. To tell you the truth, 
Ned, the state is submitting to the influence of two of the silliest 
motives that can govern men— ultra conservatism, and ultra prog- 
ress; the one holding back, often, to preserve that which is not 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR, 


55 


•worth keeping; and the other ' going ahead,’ as it is termed, merely 
tor the sake of boasting of their onward tendencies. Neither course 
is in the least suited to the actual wants of society, and each is per- 
nicious in its way.” 

” It is thought, however, that when opinion thus struggles with 
opinion, a healthful compromise is made, in which society finds its 
advantage.” 

“ The cant of mediocrity, depend on it, Ned. In the first place, 
there is no compromise about it; one side or the other gains the 
victory; and as success is sustained by numbers, the conquerors 
push their advantages to the utmost. They think of their own 
grosser interests, their passions and prejudices, rather than of any 
‘ healthful compromise,’ as you term it. What compromise is there 
in this infernal code?” Dunscomb was an ultra himself, in opposi- 
tion to a system that has a good deal of that which is useful, diluted 
by more that is not quite so good—-” or what in this matter of the 
election of judges by the people? As respects the last, for instance, 
had the tenure of office been made ‘good behavior,’ there would 
have been something like a compromise; but, no— the conquerors 
took all; and what is worse, the conquerors were actually a minor- 
ity of the voters, so easy is it to cow even numbers by political 
chicanery. In this respect, democracy is no more infallible than 
any other form of government.” 

“ 1 confess, 1 do not see how this is shown, since the polls were 
free to every citizen.” 

“ The result fairly proves it. Less than halt of the known 
number of the electors voted for the change. Now, it is absurd to 
suppose that men who really' and affirmatively wished a new con- 
stitution would stay away from the polls.” 

“ More so than to suppose that they who did not wish it would 
stay away, too?” 

” More so, and for this reason. Thousands fancied it useless to 
stem the current of what they fancied a popular movement, and 
were passive in the matter. Any man, of an extensive acquaintance, 
may easily count a hundred such idlers. Then a good many stood 
on their legal rights, and refused to vote, because the manner of 
producing the change was a palpable violation of a previous con- 
tract; the old constitution pointing out the manner in which the in- 
strument could be altered, which was not tfie mode adopted. Then 
tens of thousands voted for the new constitution, who did not know 
anything about it. They loved change, and voted for change’s 
sake; and, possibly, with some vague notion that they were to be 
benefited by making the institutions as popular as possible.” 

” And is not this the truth? Will not the mass be all the better 
■off by exercising as much power as they can?” 

“ No; and for the simple reason that masses can not, in the nature 
of things, exercise more than a very limited power. You, yourself, 
for instance, one of the mass, cannot exercise this very power of 
choosing a judge, as it ought to be exercised, and of course are 
liable to do more harm than good.” 

” The deuce 1 can not! Why is not my vote as good as your own? 
or that of any other man?” 

“ For the simple reason that you are ignorant of the whole- 


56 


THE WAYS OE THE HOUR. 


matter. Ask yourself the question, and answer it like an honest 
man; would you — could you, with the knowledge you possess, lay 
your finger on any man in this community, and say, ‘ 1 make you a 
judge’ ?” 

“Yes; my finger would be laid on you, in a minute.” 

“ Ah, Ned, that will do, as a friend; blit how would it do as a 
judicious selection of a judge you do not know? You are ignorant 
of the law, and must necessarily be ignorant of the qualifications of 
any particular person to be an interpreter of it. "What is true of 
you, is equally true of a vast majority of those who are now the 
electors of our judges.” 

“ 1 am not a little surprised, Tom, to hear you talk in this way* 
for you profess to be a democrat!” 

“ To the extent of giving the people all power, in the last resort — 
all power that they can intelligently and usefully use; but not to 
the extent of permitting them to make the laws!, to execute tho 
laws, and to interpret the laws. All that the people want is suffi- 
cient power to secure their liberties, which is simply such a state of 
things as shall secure what is right between man and man. Now,, 
it is the want of this all-important security, in a practical point of 
view, of which 1 complain. Rely on it, Ned, the people gain noth- 
ing by exercising an authority that they do not know' how to turn to 
good account. It were far better tor them, and for the state, to 
confine themselves to the choice of general agents, of whose char- 
' acters they may know something, and then confide all other powers 
to servants appointed by those named by these agents, holding all 
alike to a rigid responsibility. As for the judges, they will soon 
take decided party characters; and men wilfas blindly accuse, and 
as blindly defend them, as they now do their other leading partisans. 
What between the bench and the jury-box, we shall shortly enjoy a 
legal pandemonium.” 

“ Yet there are those who think the trial by jury is the palladium 
of our liberties.” 

Dunscomb laughed outright, for he recollected his conversation 
with the young men, which we have already related. Then sup- 
pressing his risible propensity, he continued gravely — 

“ Y"es, one or two papers, well feed by this young woman’s 
spare cash, might do her more good than any service I can render 
her. I dare say the accounts now published, or soon to be pub- 
lished, will leave a strong bias against her.” 

Why not fee a reporter as well as a lawyer, eh, Tom? There is 
no great difference, as I can see.” 

“ Yes, you can, and will, too, as soon as you look into the matter. 
A lawyer is paid for a known and authorized assistance, and the 
public, recognize in him one engaged in the interests of his client, 
and accepts his statements and efforts accordingly. But the con- 
ductor ot a public journal sets up a claim to strict impartiality, in 
his very profession, and should tell nothing but what he believes to 
be true, neither inventing nor suppressing. In his facts he is merely 
the publisher of a record; in his reasoning a judge; not an ad- 
vocate.” 

The doctor now laughed, in his turn, and well he might; few 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 57 

men being so ignorant as not to understand how far removed from 
all this are most of those who control the public journals. 

"After all, it is a tremendous power to confide to irresponsible 
men!” he claimed. 

“ That it is, and there is nothing among us that so completely 
demonstrates how iar, very far, the public mind is in the rear of 
the facts of the country, than the blind, reckless manner in which 
the press is permitted to tyrannize over the community, in ilie midst 
of all our hosannas to the Goddess of Liberty. Because, forsooth, 
what is termed a free press is useful, and has been useful in curb- 
ing an irresponsible, hereditary power, in other lands, we are just 
stupid enough to think it is of equal importance here, where no 
such power exists, and where all that remains to be done is to strict- 
ly maintain the equal rights of all classes of citizens. Did we un- 
derstand ourselves, and our own real wants, not a paper should be 
printed in the state that did not make a deposit to meet the legal 
penalties it might incur by the abuse of its trust. This is or was 
done in France, the country of all others that best respects equality 
of rights in theory, if not in practice!” 

‘‘You surely would not place restrictions on the press!” 

“ 1 would though, and very severe restrictions, as salutary checks 
on the immense power it 'wields. 1 would, for instance, forbid the 
publication of any statement whatever, „ touching parties in the 
courts, whether in civil or criminal cases, pending the actions, that 
the public mind might not be tainted, by design. Give the right to 
publish, and it will be, and is abused, and that most flagrantly, to 
meet the wishes of corruption. 1 tell you, Ned, as soon as you make 
a trade of news, you create a stock market that will have its rise 
and fall, under the impulses of fear, falsehood, and favor, just like 
your money transactions. It is a perversion of the nature of things, 
to make of news more than a simple statement of what has actually 
occurred.” 

" It is surely natural to lie!” 

“ That is it, and this is the very reason we should not throw ex- 
traordinary protection around a thousand tongues which speak by 
means of types, that we do not give to the natural member. The 
lie that is told by the press is ten thousand times a lie, in comparison 
with that which issues from the mouth of man.” 

“ By George, Tom, if I had your views, 1 would see that some 
of this strange young woman's money should be used in sustaining 
her, by means of the agents you mention!” 

“ That N\ould never do. This is one of the cases in which, * want 
of principle ’ has an ascendancy over 4 principle.’ The upright man 
can not consent to use improper instruments, while the dishonest 
fellows seize on them with avidity. So much the greater, therefore, 
is the necessity for the law’s watching the interests of the first with 
the utmost jealousy. But, unfortunately, we run away with the 
sound, and overlook the sense of things.” 

We have related this conversation at a length which a certaiu 
class of our readers will probably find tedious, but it is necessary to 
a right comprehension of various features in the picture we are 
about to draw. At the Stag’s Head the friends stopped to let the 
horses blow, and, while the’animnls were cooling themselves under 


58 


THE WAYS OE THE HOUR. 


the caie of Stephen Hoof, McBrain’s coachman, the gentlemen 
took a short walk in the hamlet. At several points, as they moved 
along, they overheard the subject of the murders alluded to, and 
saw divers newspapers, in the hands of sundiy individuals, who were 
eagerly perusing accounts of the same events; sometimes by them- 
selves, but ofteuer to groups of attentive listeners. The travelers 
were now so near town as to b( completely within its moral, not to 
say physical, atmosphere— being little more than a suburb of New 
York. On their return to the inn, the doctor stopped under the 
shed to look at his horses, before Stephen checked them up again, 
previously to a fresh start. Stephen was neither an Irishman nor a 
black; but a regular-old fashioned, Manhattannese coachman; a 
class apart, and of whom, in the confusion of tongues that pervades 
that modern Babel, a few still remain, like monuments of the past, 
scattered along the Appian Way. 

“flow do your horses stand the heat, Stephen?” the doctor 
kindly inquired, always speaking of the beasts as if they were the 
property of the coachman, and not of himself. “ Pill looks as it he 
had been well warmed this morning.” 

“ Yes, sir, he takes it somewhat hotter than Poleus, in the spring 
of the year, as a gineral thing. Pill vill \ork famously, if a body 
vill only give him his feed in vhat 1 calls a genteel vay; but them 
’ere country taverns has nothing nice about ’em, not even a clean 
manger; and a town horse that is accustomed to a sweet stable and 
proper company, won’t stand up to the rack as he should do, in one 
of their holes. Now, Poleus ,1 calls a gineral feeder: it makes no 
matter vitli him vhetlier he is at home, or out on a farm — he finishes 
his oats; but it isn’t so vith Pill, sir— his stomach is delicate, and 
the horse that don’t get his proper food vill sweat, summer or vin- 
ter.” 

“1 sometimes think, Stephen, it might be better to take them 
both oft their oats for a few days, and let blood, perhaps; they say 
that the fleam is as good for a horse as the lancet is for a man.” 

“ Don’t think on’t, sir, 1 beg of you! I’m sure they has doctor- 
stuff in their names, not to crowd ’em down vith any more, jist as 
varm veather is a settin’ in. Oats is physic enough foi a horse, and 
vhen the creaturs vants anything more, sir, jist leave ’em to me. I 
knows as peculiar a drench as ever vas poured down a vheeler’s 
throat, vitliout troublin’ that academy in Barclay Street, vhere so 
many gentlemen goes two or three times a veek, and vhere, they do 
say, so many goes in as never comes out whole.” 

“ Well, Stephen, I’ll not interfere with your treatment, for 1 con- 
fess to very little knowledge of the diseases of horses. What have 
you got in the paper there, that I see you have been reading?” 

“ Vhy, sir,” answered Stephen, scratching his head, “ it’s all 
about our affair, up yonder.” • 

“ Our affair! Ohi you mean the inquest, and the murder. Well, 
what does the paper say about it, Hoof!” 

“ It says it’s a most ‘ thrilling a’count,’ sir, and an * awful trag- 
edy;’ and it vonders vhat young vomen is a-coming to next. 1 am 
pretty much of the same vay of thinking, sir, myself.” 

“ You are in the habit of thinking very much as the newspapers 
do, ate you not, Stephen?” asked Dunscomb. 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


59 


“ Yell, Squire Dunscomb, you’ve hit it! There is an onaccountr 
able resemblance, like, in our thoughts. 1 haidly ever set down to 
read a papsr, that, afore I’ve got half way through it, 1 find it 
thinking just as 1 do! It puzzles me to know how them that writes 
for these papers finds out a Body's thoughts so veil!” 

“ They have a way of doing it; but it is too long a story to go 
over now. So this paper has something to say about our youiTg 
woman, has it, Stephen? and it mentions the Biberry business?” 

“ A good deal. Squire; and vhat 1 calls good sense, too. Vhy, 
gentlemen, vhat shall we all come to, if yo'uqg gals of fifteen can 
knock us in the head, matched, like, or in pairs, killing a whole 
team at one blow, and then set fire to the stables, and burn us up to 
our anatomies?” 

“Fifteen! Does your account say that Miss Monson is only 
fifteen, Hoof?” 

“ ‘ She appears to be of the tender age of fifteen, and is of extror- 
nary personal attractions.’ Them’s the werry vords, sir; but per- 
haps you’d like to read it yourselves, gentlemen?” 

As Stephen made this remark, he very civilly offered the journal 
to Dunscomb, who took it; but was not disposed to drop the con- 
versation just then to read it, though his eye did glance at the ar- 
ticle, as he continued the subject. This was a habit with him; his 
clerks often saying, he could carry the chains of arguments of two 
subjects in his mind at the same moment. His present object was 
to ascertain from this man what might be the popular feeling in re- 
gard to his client, at. the place they had just left, and the scene of 
the events themselves. 

“ What is thought and said, at Biberry, among those with whom 
you talked, Stephen, concerning this matter?” 

“ That it’s a most awful ewent, Squire! One of the werry vorst 
that has happened in these werry vicked times, sir. 1 heard one 
gentleman go oyer all the murders that has taken place about York 
during these last ten years, and a perdigious sight on ’em there vas; 
so many, that 1 began to vonder I vasn’t one of the wictims myself; 
but he counted ’em off on his fingers, and made this out to be one 
of the werry vorst of ’em all, sir. He did, indeed, sir.” 

“ Was he a reporter, Stephen? one of the persons who are sent 
out by the papers to collect news?” 

“ I believe he vas, sir. Quite a gentleman ; and vith something to 
say to all he met. He often came out to the stables, and had a long 
conwersation vith as poor a feller as I be.” 

“ Pray, what could he have to say to you, Stephen?” demanded 
the doctor, a little gravely. 

“Oh! lots of things, sir. He began by praising the horses, and 
asking their names. " 1 give him my names, sir, not yourn'; for 1 
* thought he might get it into print, somehow, that Dr. McBrain 
calls his coach-horses after his physic, Pill and Poleus Bolus ” 
was the real appellation that the owner had been pleased to give this 
beast; but as Stephen fancied the word had some connection with 
“ pole-horse,” he chose to pronounce it as written. “Yes, 1 didn’t 
vish your names to get into the papers, sir; and so I told him ‘ Pill ’ 
vas called ‘ Marygoold,’ and ‘ Poleus,’ ‘ Dandelion.’ He promised 
an article about ’em, sir; and I give him the ages, blood, sires, and 


^60 THE WATS OF THE HOUR. 

dams, of both the beauties. He told me he thought the names de- 
lightful; hnd I’m in hopes, sir, you’ll give up yourn, arter all, and 
take to mine altogether.” 

“ We shall see. And he promised an article, did he?” 

‘‘"Yes, sir, quite woluntary. 1 know’d that the horses couldn’t 
be outdone, and told him as much as that; for 1 thought, as the sub- 
ject vas up, it might be as veil to do ’em all the credit 1 could. Per- 
haps, vhen they gets to be too old for vork, you might vish to part 
vith ’em, sir, and then a good newspaper character could do ’em no 
great harm.” 

Stephen was a particularly honest fellow, as to things in general; 
but he had the infirmity which seems to be so general among men, 
that of a propensity to cheat in a transfer of horse-flesh. Dunscomb 
was amused at this exhibition of character, of which he had seen so 
much in his day, and felt disposed to follow it up. 

V 1 believe you had some difficulty in choosing one of the horses, 
Stephen ” — McBrain commissioned his coachman to do all the bar- 
gaining of this sort, and had never lost a cent by his confidence — 
“ Pill, 1 think it w r as, that didn’t bring as good a character as he 
might have done?” 

“ Beg your pardon, Squire, ’twasn’t he, but Marygoold. Yhy, the 
thing vas this: a gentleman of the church had bought Marygoold to 
go in a buggy; but soon van ted to part vith him, ’cause of hi3 
shyin’ in single harness, vhich frightened his vife, as lie said. 
INow, all the difficulty vas in this one thing: not that 1 cared at all 
about the creatur’s shvin’, vhich vas no great matter in double har- 
ness, you' know, sir, and a body could soon coax him out of the 
notion on it, by judgematical drivin’; but the difficulty vas here— if 
the owner of a horse owned so much ag’in his character, there must 
be a great deal behind, that a feller must find out as veil as he could. 
I’ve know’d a foundered animal put off under a character for 
shyin’.” 

“ And the owner a clergyman, Stephen?” 

“ Perhaps not, sir. But it makes no great matter in tradin’ 
horses'; church and Ihe vorld is much of a muchness.” 

“ Did that reporting gentleman ask any questions concerning the 
owner, as well as concerning the horses?” 

“ Vhy, yes, sir; vhen he vas done vith the animals, he did make 
• a lew observations about the doctor. He van ted 1o know if he vas 
married yet, and vhen it vas to happen; and how much 1 thought 
he might be vorth, and how much Mrs. Updyke vas counted for; 
and if there vas children; and vhich house the family vas to live in ; 
and vhere he should keep the slate, arter the veddin’ had come 
off; and hOw much the doctor’s practice vas vorth; and vhether he 
vas vliig or locy; and, most of all, he vanted to know vhy he and 
you, sir, should go to Biberry about this murder.” 

“ What did you tell him, Stephen, in reference to the last?” 

“ Vhat could I, sir? 1 don’t know, myself. I’ve druv’ the doctor 
often and often to see them that has died soon arter our wisit; but 1 
never druv’ him, afore, to wisit the dead. That gentleman seemed 
1o think he vas much mistaken about the skeletons; but it’s all in 
tile paper, sir.” 

On healing this, Dunscomb quick.lv turned to the columns of the 


THE WAYS OE. THE HOUR. 


61 


journal again, and was soon reading their contents aloud to his 
friend; in the meantime/ Stephen set Marygoold and Dandelion in 
motion once more. 

The account was much as-Dunscomb expected to find it; so writ- 
ten as to do no possible good, while it might do a great deal ot 
harm. The intention was to feed a morbid feeling in the vulgar for 
exaggerated accounts of the shocking— the motive being gain Any- 
thing that would sell, was grist for this mill ; and the more marvel- 
ous and terrible the history of Ihe event could be made, the greater 
was the success likely to be. The allusions to Mary Mon son were 
managed with a good deal of address; for, while there was a seem- 
ing respect for her rights, the reader was left to infer that her guilt 
was not only beyond a question, but of the darkest dye. It was 
while reading and commenting on these articles, that the carriage 
entered Broadway, and soon set Dunscomb down at his own door. 
There the doctor left it; choosing to walk as far as Mrs. Updyke's 
rather than give Stephen more materials for the reporter. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Then none was for a party ; 

Then all were for the state; 

Then the great man help’d the poor, 

And the poor man lov’d the great: 

Then lands were fairly portion’d; 

Then spoils were fairly sold; , 

The Romans were like brothers 
In the brave days of old. 

Macaulay. 

It has been said that John Wilmeter was left by his uncle at Bi- 
berry, to look after Ihe welfare of their strange client. John, or Jack 
as he was commonly called by his familiars, including his pretty 
sister, was in the main a very good fellow, though far from being 
free from the infirmities to which the male portion of the human 
family are subject, when under the age of thirty. He was frank, 
manly, generous, disposed to think for himself, and, what is some- 
what unusual with his countrymen, of a temperament that led him 
to make up his miod suddenly, and was not to be easily swayed by 
the notions that might be momentarily floating about in the neigh- 
borhood. Perhaps a little of a spirit oh opposition to the feeling 
that was so rapidly gaining head in Biberry inclined him to take a 
warmer interest in the singular female who stood charged with such 
enormous crimes, than he might otherwise have done. 

The instructions left by Mr. Dunscomb with his nephew also' 
gave the latter some uneasiness. In the first place they had been 
very ample and thoughtful on the subject of the prisoner’s comforts, 
which had been seen to in a way that is by no means common in a 
jail. Money had been used pretty freely in effecting this object, it 
is true; but, out of the large towns, money passes for much less on 
such occasions, in America, than in most other countries* Th& 
people are generally kind-hearted, and considerate for the wants of 
others; and fair words will usually do quite as much as dollars. 
Dunscomb, however, had made a very judicious Application of bothj, 


62 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


and beyond the confinement and the fearful nature of the charges, 
brought against her, Mary Monson had very little to complain of in 
her situation. 

The part of his instructions which gave John Wilmeter most un- 
easiness, which really vexed him, related to the prisoner’s innocence 
or guilt. The uncle distrusted; the nephew was all confidence. 
While the first Had looked at the circumstances coolly, and was, if 
anything, leaning to the opinion that there might be truth in the 
charges, the last beheld in Mary Monson an attractive young per- 
son of the other sex, whose innocent countenance was the pledge of 
an innocent soul. To John, it was preposterous to entertain a 
charge of this nature against one so singularly gifted. 

“ 1 should as soon think of accusing Sarah of such dark offenses, 
as of accusing this young lady, ” exclaimed J ohn to his friend Michael 
Millington, while the two were taking their breakfast next day. 
** It is preposterous— wicked — monstrous, to suppose that a young, 
educated female would, or could, commit such crimes. Why, Mike, 
she understands French and Italian, and Spanish; and 1 think it 
quite likely that she can also read German, if indeed, she can not 
speak it.” 

“ How do you know this? Has she been making a display of her 
.knowledge?” 

“ Not in the least— it all came out as naturally, as possible. She 
asked for some of her own books to read, and when they were 
brought to her, 1 found that she had selected works in all four of 
these languages. 1 was quite ashamed of my own ignorance, 1 can 
assure you; which amounts to no more than a smattering of French, 
in the face of her Spanish, Italian and German.” 

“ Poll! I shouldn’t have minded it, in the least,” Michael very 
coolly replied, his mouth being half -full of beefsteak. “ The girls 
iead us in such things, of course. No man dreams of keeping up 
with a young lady who has got into the living languages. Miss 
•Wilmeter might teach us both, and laugh at our ignorance, in the 
bargain. ” 

” Sarah! Ay, she is a good enough girl, in her way — but no more 
to be compared—” 

Jack Wilmeter stopped short, for Millington dropped his knife 
with not a little clatter, on his plate, and was gazing at his friend in 
a. sort of fierce astonishment. 

“ You don’t dream of comparing your sister to this unknown and 
suspected stranger,” at length Michael got out, speaking very much 
like one whose head has been held under water until his breath was 
nearly exhausted. “ You ought to recollect, John, that virtue 
should never be brought unnecessarily in contact wilh vice.” 

“ Mike, and do you, too, believe in the guilt of Mary Monson?” 

“ 1 believe that she is committed under a verdict given by an in- 
quest, and think it best to suspend my opinion as to the main fact, 
in waiting for further evidence. Remember, Jack, how often your 
uncle has told us that, after all, good witnesses were the gist of the 
law. Let us wait and see what a trial may bring forth.” 

Young Wilmeter coveted his face with his hands, bowed his head 
to the fable, and ate not another morsel that morning. His good 
sense admonished him of the prudence of the advice' just given; 


THE WAYS Of THE. HOUR. 


63 

while feelings, impetuous, and excited almost to fierceness, im- 
pelled him to go forth and war on all who denied the innocence of 
the accused. To own the truth, John Wilmeter was last becoming 
entangled in the meshes of love. 

And, sooth to say, notwithstanding the extreme awkwardness of 
her situation, the angry feeling that was so fast rising up against her 
in Biberry and its vicinity, and the general mystery that concealed 
her real name, character and history, there was that about Mary 
Monson, in her countenance, other personal advantages, and most 
of all in her manner and voice, that might well catch the fancy of 
a.youth of warm feelings, and through his fancy, sooner or later, 
touch his heart. As yet, John was only under the influence of the 
new-born sentiment, and had he now been removed from Biberry, 
it is probable that tlie feelings and interest which had been so Sud- 
denly and powerfully awakened in him would have passed away 
altogether, or remained in shadow on his memory, as a melancholy 
and yet pleasant record of hours past, under circumstances in which 
men live fast, if they do not always live well. Little did the uncle 
think of the great danger to which he exposed his nephew, when he 
placed him, like a sentinel in law, on duty near the portal of his 
immured client. But the experienced Dunscomb was anxious to 
bring John into active life, and to place him in situations that might 
lead him to think and execute for himself: and. it had been much 
his practice, of late, to put the yop n g man forward, whenever cir- 
cumstances would admit of it. Although the counselor was more 
than at his ease in fortune, and John and Sarah each possessed very 
respectable means, that placed them altogether above dependence, 
he was exceedingly anxious that his nephew should succeed to liis 
own business, as the surest mode of securing his happiness and re- 
spectability in a community where the number of the idle is rela- 
tively so small- as to render the pursuits of a class that is by no means 
without its uses, where it can be made to serve {he tastes and man- 
ners of, a country, difficult of attainment. He had the same desire, 
in behalf of his niece, or that she should become the wife of a man 
who had something to do; and the circumstance that Millington, 
though of highly reputable connections, was almost entirely with- 
out fortune, was no objection in his eyes to the union that Sarah 
was so obviously inclined to form. The two young men had been left 
on the ground, therefore, to take care of the interests of a client who 
Dunscomb was compelled to admit was one that interested him 
more than any other in whose services he had ever been employed, 
strongly as he was disposed to fear that appearances might be de- 
ceitful. 

Our young men were not idle. In addition to doing all that was 
in their power to contribute to the personal comforts of Miss Mon- 
son, they were active and intelligent in obtaining and making notes 
of all the facts that had been drawn out by the coroner’s inquest, or 
which could be gleaned in tthe neighborhood. These facts, or 
rumors, John classed into the “proved,” the “reported,” (he 
“probable,” and the “ improbable;” accompanying each division 
with such annotations as made a very useful sort of brief for any 
one who wished to push the inquiries further. 

“ There, Millington,” he said when they reached the jail, on their 


64 THE WAYS OF THE HOUK. 

return from a walk as far as the ruins of the house which had been 
burned, and after they had dined, “ there; I think we have done tol- 
erably well for one day, and are in a fair way to give Uncle Tom a 
pretty full account of this miserable business. The more 1 see and 
learn of it, the more I am convinced of the perfect innocence of the 
accused. 1 trust it slrikes you in the same way, Mike?” 

But Mike was by no means as sanguine as his friend. He smiled 
faintly at this question, and endeavored to evade a direct answer. 
He saw how lively were the hopes of Tom, and how deeply his feel- 
ings were getting to be interested in the matter, while his own judg- 
ment, influenced, perhaps, by Mr. Dunscomb’s example, greatly 
inclined him to the worst foreboding of the result. Still he had an 
honest satisfaction in saying anything that might contribute to the 
gratification of Sarah’s brother, and a good opportunity now offer- 
ing, he did not let it escape him. 

“ There is one thing, Jack, that seems to have been strangely 
overlooked,” he said, “and out of which some advantage may 
come, if it be thoroughly sifted. You may remember it was stated 
by some of the witnesses, that there was a German woman in the 
family of the Goodwins, the day that preceded the fire— one em- 
ployed in housework?” 

“ Now you mention it, 1 do! Sure enough; what has become of 
that woman?” 

“ While you were drawing your diagram of the ruins, and pro- 
jecting your plan of the out-lmildings, garden, fields and so on, 1 
stepped across to the neaiest house, and had a chat with the ladies. 
You may remember 1 told you it was to get a drink of milk; but I 
saw petticoats, and thought something might be learned from 
woman’s propensity to talk?” 

“ 1 know you left me, but I was too busy, just then, to see on 
what errand, or whither you went.” 

“ It was to the old stone farm-house that stands only fifty rods 
•from the ruins. The family in possession is named Burton, and a 
more talkative set 1 never encountered in petticoats.” 

“ How many had you to deal with, Mike?” John inquired, run- 
ning his eyes over his notes as he asked the question, in a way that 
showed how little he anticipated from this interview with the Bur- 
tons. “ If more than one of the garrulous set 1 pity you, for I had 
a specimen of them yesterday morning myself, in a passing inter- 
view.” 

“ There were three talkers, and one silent body. As is usual, 1 
thought that tire silent member of the house knew more than the 
speakers, if she had been inclined to let out her knowledge.” 

Ay, that is a way we have of judging of one another; but it is 
as often false as true. As many persons are silent because they have 
oolhing to say, as because they are reflecting; and of those who look 
very wise, about one half, as near as 1 can judge, look so as a sort 
of apology for being very silly. ’ ’ 

“ I can’t say how it was with Mrs. Burton, the silent member of 
the family, in this case; but X do know that her three worthy sisters- 
in-law are to be classed among the foolish virgins.” 

“ Had they no oil to trim their lamps withal?” 

“ It had all been used to render their tongues limber. Never did 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


65 

three damsels pour Out words in so full a rivulet, as 1 was honored 
with for the first five minutes. By the end of that time, 1 was en- 
abled to put a question or two; after which they were better satisfied 
to let me interrogate, while they were content to answer.” 

“Did you learn anything, Mike, to reward you for all this 
trouble?” again glancing at his notes. 

“ 1 think I did. With a good deal of difficulty in eliminating the 
surplusage, it 1 may coin a word for the occasion, I got these facts: 
It would seem that the German woman was a newly-arrived im- 
migrant, who had strolled into the country, and offered to work for 
her food, etc. Mrs. Goodwin usually attended to all her own do- 
mestic-matters; but she had an attack of rheumatism that predis- 
posed her to receiye this offer, and that so much the more willingly, 
because the ‘ help ’ was not to be paid. It appears that the deceased 
female was an odd mixture of miserly propensities with a love of 
display. She hoarded all she crould lay her hands on, and took a 
somewhat uncommon pleasure in showing her hoards to her neigh- 
bors. Iu consequence of this last weakness, the whole neighbor- 
hood knew noi only of her gold, for she turned every coin into that 
metal, before it was consigned to her stocking, but of the amount to 
a dollar, and the place where she kept it. In this all agreed, even 
to the silent matron.” 

“And what lias become of this German woman?” asked John, 
closing his notes with sudden interest. “ Why was she not exam- 
ined before the inquest? and where is she now?” 

“ No one knows. She has been missing ever since the fire, and a 
few fancy that she may, after all, be the person who has done the 
whole mischief. It does wear a strange look, that no trace can be 
heard of her!” 

“ This must be looked into closely, Mike. It is unaccountably 
strange that more was not said of her before the coroner. Yet, 1 
fear one thing, too. Doctor McBrain is a man of the highest attain- 
ments as an anatomist, and you will remember that he inclines to 
the opinion that both the skeletons belonged to females. Now, it 
may turn out that this German woman’s remains have been found; 
which will put her guilt out of the question.” 

“ Surely, Jack, you would not be sorry to have it turn out that 
any human being should be innocent of such crimes!” 

“ By no means; though it- really does seem to me more probable 
that an unknown straggler should be the guilty one in this case, 
than an educated young female, who has every claim in the way of 
attainments to be termed a lady. Besides, Michael, these German 
immigrants have brought more than their share of crime among us. 
Look at the reports of murders and robberies for the last ten years, 
and you will find that an undue proportion of them have been com- 
mitted by this Class of immigrants. To me, nothing appears more 
probable than this affair’s being traced up to that very woman.” 

“ 1 own you are right, in saying what you do of the Germans. 
But it should be remembered, that some of their states are said to 
have adopted the policy of sending their rogues to America. If 
England were to attempt that now, 1 fancy Jonathan would hardly 
stand it!” 

“ He ought not to stand it for an hour, from any nation on earth. 


66 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


If there ever was a good cause for war, this is one.. Yes, ye&j that 
German immigrant must be looked up, and examined.” 

Michael Millington smiled faintly at John Wilmeter’s disposition 
to believe the worst of the High Dutch; touching the frailties of 
whom, however, neither of the two had exaggerated anything. Far 
more than their share of the grave crimes of this country have, 
within the period named, been certainly committed by immigrants 
from Germany; whether the cause be in the reason given, or in 
national character. This is not according to ancient opinion, but 
•we believe it to be strictly according to fact. The Irish are clan- 
nish, turbulent, and much disposed to knock each other on the head; 
but it is not to rob, or to pilfer, but to quarrel. The Englishman 
will pick your pocket, or commit burglary, when inclined to 
roguery, and frequently he has a way of his own of extorting, in 
the way of vails. The Frenchmen may well boast of their free- 
dom from wrongs done to persons or property in this country; no 
class of immigrants furnishing to the prisons, comparatively, fewer 
criminals. The natives, out of all proportion, are freest from crime, 
if the blacKS be excepted, and when we compare the number of the 
convicted with the number of the people. Still, such results ought 
not to be taken as furnishing absolute rules by which to judge of 
large bodies of men; since unsettled lives on the one hand, and the 
charities of life on the other, may cause disproportions that would 
not otherwise exist. 

“ If one of these skeletons be that of the German woman, and 
Doctor McBrain should prove to be right,” said John Wilmeter, 
earnestly, “ what has become of the remains of Mr. Goodwin? 
There was a husband as well as a wife, in that family.” 

“ Yeiy true,” answered Millington; “and 1 learned something 
concerning him, too. It seems that the old fellow drank intensely, 
at times, when he and his wife made the house too hot to hold 
them. All the Burtons agreed in giving this account of the good 
couple. The failing was not generally known, and had qot yet 
gone so far as to affect'the old man’s general character, though it 
would seem to have been known to the immediate neighbors.” 

“ And not one word of all this is to be found in any of the re 
ports in the papers from town! Not a particle of testimony on the 
point before the inquest! Why, Mike, this single fact may furnish 
a clew to the whole catastrophe.” 

” In what way?” Millington very quietly Inquired. 

“ Those bones are the bones of females; old Goodwin has robbed 
the house, set fire to it, murdered his wife and the G^ripan woman 
in a drunken frolic, and ran away. Here is a history for Uncle 
Tom, that will delight him; for it he do not feel quite certain of 
Mary Monson’s innocence now, he would be delighted to learn its 
truth!” 

“ You make much out of a very little, Jack; and imagine far, 
more than you can prove. Why should old Goodwin set fire to his 
own house — fori understand the property was his — steal his own 
money ’ ’--for, though married women did then hold a separate estate 
in a bed-quilt, or a gridiron, the law could not touch the previous 
accumulations of a femecoverte — “ and murder a poor foreigner, who 
could neither give nor take away anything that the building con- 


THE ¥|IS OF THE HOUR. ,67 

tained? Then he is to burn his own house, and make himself a 
vagrant in his old age — and that among stranaers! 1 learn he was 
born in that very house, and has passed his days in it. Such a 
man would not be very likely to destroy it.” 

“Why not, to conceal a murder? Crime must be concealed, or 
it is punished.” 

“Sometimes,” returned Michael, dryly. “This Mary Monscn 
will be hanged, out of all question, should the case go against her, 
for she understands French, and Italian, and German/ you say; 
either of which tongues would be sufficient to hang her; but had 
old Mrs. Goodwin murdered her , philanthropy /would have been up 
and stirring, and no rope would be stretched."” 

“ Millington, you have a way of talking, at times, that is quite 
shocking! 1 do wish you could correct it. What use is there in 
bringing a young lady like Miss Monson down to the level ol a 
common criminal?” 

“ She will be brought down as low as that, depend on it, if guilty. 
Tnere is no hope for one who bears about her person, in air, man- 
ner, speech, and deportment, the unequivocal signs of a lady. Our 
sympathies are all kept for those who are less set apart from the 
common herd. Sympathy goes by majorities, as well as other mat- 
ters.” 

“You think her, at all events, alady?” said John, quickly 
“ How, then, can you suppose it possible that she has been guilty 
of the crimes of which she stands accused?” 

“ Simply, because my old-fashioned father has given me old- 
fashioned notions of the meaning of terms. So thin-skinned have 
people become lately, that even language must be perverted to 
gratify their conceit. The terms * gentleman ’ and ‘ lady ’ have as 
defined meanings as any two words we possess — signifying persons 
of cultivated minds and of certain refinements in tastes and man- 
ners. Morals have nothing to do with either, necessarily, as a ‘ gen- 
tleman ’ or ‘ lady ’ may be very wicked; nay, often are. It is true 
there are particular acts, partaking of meannesses, rather than any- 
thing decidedly criminal, that, by -convention, a gentleman or 
3ady may not commit; but there are a hundred others, that are far 
worse, which are not prohibited. It is unlady-like to talk scandal; 
but it is not deemed always unlady-like to give grounds to scandal. 
Here is a bishop who has lately been defining a gentleman, and, as 
usually happens with such men, unless they were originally on a 
level with their dioceses, he describes a ‘Christian,’ rather than a 
‘ gentleman.’ This notion of making converts, by means of enlist- 
ing our vanity and self-love in the cause, is but a weak one, at the 
best.” 

“ Certainly, Mike; 1 agree with you in the main. As large classes 
of polished people do exist, who have loose enough notions of 
morals, there ought to be terms to designate them, as a class, as 
well as to give any other name, when we have the thing. Use has 
applied those of ‘ gentlemen ’ and ‘ ladies,’ and I can see no sufficient 
reason for changing them.” 

“ It comes wholly from the longings of human vanity. Asa cer- 
tain distinction is attached to the term, everybody is covetous of 
obtaining it, and all sorts of reasoning is resorted io, to drag them 


68 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


into the categories. It would be the same, if it were a ground of 
distinction to have but one ear. But this distinction wiil be very 
likely to make things go hard with our 'Client, Jack, if the jury say 
‘guilty.’” 

“The jury never can— never will render such a verjict! 1 do not 
think the grand jury will even return a bill. Why should they? 
The testimony wouldn’t convict an old st^te-prison bird.” 

Michael Millington smiled, a little sadly, perhaps— for John Wil- 
meier was Sarah’s only brother — but he made no reply, perceiving 
that an old negro, named Sip, or Scipio, who lived about the jail by 
a sort of sufferance, and who had now been a voluntary adherent of 
a place that was usually so unpleasant to men of his class for many 
years, was approaching, as if lie were the bearer of a message. Sip 
was an old-school black, gray-headed, and had seen more than his 
three-score years and ten. No wonder, then, that his dialect par- 
took, in a considerable degree, of the peculiarities that were once so 
marked in a Manhattan “ nigger.” Unlike his brethren of the pres- 
ent day, he was courtesy itself to all “ gentlemen,” while, his re- 
spect for “ common folks ” was a good deal more equivocal. But 
chiefly did the old man despise “ yaller fellers;” these he regarded 
as a mongrel race, who cpuld neither aspire to the pure complexion 
of the Circassian stock, nor lay claim to the glistening dye of Africa. 

“Mrs. Gott, she want to see masser,” said Scipio, bowing to 
John, grinning — for a negro seldom loses his teeth— and turning 
civilly to Millington, with a respectful inclination of a head that 
was as white as snow. “ Yes, sah; she want to see masser, soon as 
conbe’nent; and soon as he can come.” 

Now, Mrs. Gott was the wife of the sheriff, and, alas! for the 
dignity of the office! the sheriff was the keeper of the county jail. 
This is one of the fruits born on the wide-spreading branches of the 
tree of democracy. Formerly, a New York sherifl bore a strong re- 
semblance to his English namesake. He was one of the county 
gentry, aDd executed the duties of his office with an air and a man- 
ner; appeared in court with a sword, and carried with his name a 
weight and an authority, that now are nearly wanting. Such men 
would scarcely become jailers. But that universal root of all evil, 
the love of money, made the discovery that there was profit to be 
had in feeding the prisoners, and a lower class of men aspired to 
the offices, and obtained them; since which time, more than half of 
the sheriffs of New York have been their own jailers. 

“I)o you know why Mrs. Gott wishes to see me, Scipio?” de- 
manded Wilriieter. 

“I b’lieve, sah, dat ’e young- woman, as murders ole Masser 
Goodwin and he wife, asked her to send for masser.” 

This was plain enough, and it caused Jack a severe pang; for it 
showed how conclusively and unsparingly the popular mind had 
made up its opinion touching Mary Monson’s guilt. There Was no 
time to be lost, however; and the young man hastened toward the 
building to which the jail was attached, both standing quite near 
the court-house. In the door of what was her dwelling, tor the 
time being, stood Mrs. Gott, the wife of the high sheriff of the 
county, and the only person in all Biberry who, as it appeared to 
John, entertained his own opinions of the innocence of the accused. 


THE WAYS OF' THE HOUR. 


69 


But Mrs. s Gott was, by nature, a kind-hearted woman ; and, though so 
flagrantly ofit of place in her united characters, was just such a per- 
son as ought to have the charge of the female department of a pris- 
on. Owing to the constant changes of the democratic principle 
of rotation in office, one of the most impudent of all the devices of 
a covetous envy, this woman had not many months before come 
out of the bosom of society, and had not seen enough ol the ways 
of her brief and novel situation to have lost any of those qualities 
of her sex, such as extreme kindness, gentleness of disposition, and 
feminine feeling, that are anything but uncommon among the 
women of America. In many particulars, she would have answered 
the imaginative bishop’s description of a “lady;” but she would 
have been sadly deficient in some of the requisites that the opinions 
of the world have attached to the character. In these last particu- 
lars, Mary Monson, as compared with this worthy matron, was like 
a being of another race; though, as respects the first, we shall refer 
the reader to the events to be hereafter related, that he may decide 
the question according to his own judgment. 

“ Mary Monson has sent for you, Mr. Wilmeter,” the good Mrs, 
Gott commenced, in a low, confidential sort of tone, as if she imag- 
ined 'that she and John were the especial guardians of this unknown 
and seemingly ill-fated young woman’s fortunes. “ She is wonder- 
fully resigned and patient— a great deal mpre patient than I should 
be, if I was obliged to live in this jail— that is, on the other side of 
the strong doors; but she told me, an hour ago, that she is not sure, 
after all, her imprisonment is not the very best thing that could hap- 
pen to her!” 

“ That was a strange remark!’ returned John. “ Did she make 
it under a show of feeling, as if penitence, or any other strong emo- 
tion, induced her to utter it?” 

“ With as sweet a smile, as composed a manner, and as gentle and 
soft a voice as a body ever sees, or listens to! What a wonderfully 
soft and musical voice she has, Mr. Wilmeter!” 

‘‘Shelias, indeed. 1 was greatly struck with it, the moment 1 
heard her' speak. How much Tike a lady, Mrs. Gott, she uses it— and 
how correct and well-pronounced are her words!” 

Although Mrs. Gott and John Wilmeter had very different ideas, 
at the bottom, of the requisites to form a lady, and the pronuncia- 
tion of the good woman was by no mpans faultless, she cordially as- 
sented to the truth of the young man’s eulogy. Indeed, Mary Mon- 
son, for the hour, was her great theme: and, though still a young 
woman herself, and good-looking withal, she really seemed never to 
tire of uttering her praises. 

“ She has been educated, Mr. Wilmeter, far above any female 

hereabouts, unless it may be some of the s and s,” the good 

woman continued. *‘ Those families, you know, are our upper crust 
—not upper ten thousand, as the newspapers call it, but upper hun- 
dred, and their ladies may knovs as much as Mary; but, beyond 
them, no female hereabouts can hold a candle to her! Her books 
have been brought in, and I looked them over— there isn’t more than 
one in three that I can read at all. What is more, they don’t seem 
to be all in one tongue, the foreign books, but in three or four.” 

“ She certainly has a knowledge- of several of the living lan- 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR, 


ID: 

guages, and an accurate knowledge, too. 1 know a little of such 
things myself ; but my friend Millington is quite strong in both the 
living and dead languages, and he says that what she knows she 
knows well.” 

“ That is comforting— for a young lady that can speak so many 
different tongues would hardly think of robbing and murdering two 
old people in their beds. Well, sir, perhaps you had better go to the 
door and see her, though 1 could stay here and talk about her all 
day. _ Pray, Mr. Wilmeter, which of the languages is really dead?’’ 

John smiled, but civilly enlightened the sheriff’s lady bn this 
point, and then, preceded by her, he went to the important door 
which separated the dwelling of the family from the rooms of the 
jail. Once opened, an imperfect communication is obtained with the 
interior of the last, by means of a grating in an inner door. The 
jaiLof Dukes County is a recent construction, and is built on a plan 
that is coming much into favor, though still wanting in the highest 
proof of civilization, by sufficiently separating criminals, and in 
treating the accused with a proper degree of consideration, until the 
verdict of a jury has pronounced them guilty. 

The construction of this jail was very simple. A strong, low, ob- 
long building had been erected on a foundation so filled in with 
stones as to render digging nearly impossible. The floors were of 
large, massive stones, that ran across the whole building, a distance 
of some thirty feet, or if there were joints, they were under the par- 
tition walls, rendering them as secure as it solid. The cells were 
not large, certainly, but of sufficient size to admit of light and air. 
The ceilings were of the same enormous flat stones as the floors, well 
secured by a load of stones, and beams to brace them, apd the par- 
titions were ot solid masonry. There the prisoner is incased in 
stone, and nothing can be more hopeless than an attempt to get out 
of one of these cells, provided the jailer gives even ordinary atten- 
tion to their condition. Above and around them are erected the 
outer walls ot the jail. The last comprise an ordinary stone house, 
with roof, windows, and the other customary appliances of a human 
abode. As these walls stand several feet without those of the real 
prison, ana are somewhat higher-, the latter are an imperium in im- 
pefio; a house within a house. The space between the walls of the 
two buildings forms a gallery extending around all the cells. Iron 
grated gates divide the several parts ot this gallery into so many 
compartments, and in the jail of Bi berry care has been had so to 
arrange these subdivisions that those within any one compartment 
may be concealed from those in all of the others but the two that 
immediately join it. The breezes are admitted by means of the ex- 
ternal windows, while the height of tlieceiling in the galleries, and 
the space above tire tops of the cells, contribute largely to comfort 
and health in this important particular. As the doors of the cells 
stand opposite to the windows, the entire jail can be, and usually is, 
made airy and light. Stoves in the galleries preserve the tempera- 
ture, and effectually remove all disagreeable moisture. In a word, 
the place is as neat, convenient, and decent as the jail ot convicts 
need ever to be; but the proper sort of distinction is not attended 
to between them and those who are merely accused. Our civilisa- 
tion in this respect is defective.' While the land is filled with sense- 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


71 


less cries against an aristocracy which, if it exist at all, exists in the 
singular predicament of being far less favored than the democracy, 
involving a contradiction in terms; against a feudality that consists 
in men’s having bargained to pay their debts in chickens, no one 
complaining in behalf of those who have entered into contracts to 
do the same in wheat; and against rent , while usury' is not only 
smiled on, but encouraged, and efforts are made to legalize extortion — 
the public mind is quiet on the subject of the treatment of those 
who the policy of government demands should be kept in security 
until their guilt or innocence be established. What reparation, 
under such circumstances, can be made to him to whom the gates 
are finally opened, for having been incarcerated on charges that are 
groundless? The jails of the Christian world were first constructed 
by an irresponsible power, and to confine the weak. We imitate the 
vices of the system with a cold indifference, and shout “ feudality” 
over a bantam, or a pound of butter, that are paid under contracted 
covenants for rent! 

CHAPTER VII. 

Sir, this is the house; please it you that I call? 

Taming of the Shrew. 

The grated window which John Wilmeter now approached, com- 
manded nearly an entire view of the gallery that communicated with 
the cell of Mary Monson. It also commanded a partial' view of the 
cell itself. As he looked through the grates, he saw how neat and 
comfortable the last had been made by means of Mrs. Gott’s care, 
aided, doubtless, by some of the prisoner’s money— that gold which 
was, in fact, the strongest and only very material circumstance 
against her. Mrs. Gott had put a carpet in the cell, and divers 
pieces of furniture that were useful, as well as two or three that 
were intended to be ornamental, rendering the otherwise gloomy lit- 
tle apartment tolerably cheerful. The gallery, much to John’s sur- 
prise, had been furnished, also. Pieces of new carpeting were laid 
on the flags, chairs and table had been provided, and among other 
articles of this nature was a very respectable looking-glass. Every- 
thing appeared new, and a3 if just sent from the different shops 
where the various articles were sold. Wilmeter fancied that not less 
than a hundred dollars had been expended in furnishing that gal- 
lery. The effect was surprising; taking away from tfie place its 
chilling, jail-like air, and giving to it what it had never possessed 
before, one of household comfort. 

Mary Monson was walking to and fro, in this gallery, with slow, 
thoughtful steps, her head a little bowed, and her hands hanging 
before her, with the fingers interlocked. So completely was she 
lost in thought, that John’s footstep, of presence at the grate, was 
not observed, and he had an opportunity to watch her for near a min- 
ute, unseen himself. The occupation was not exactly excusable* 
but, under all the circumstances, young Wilmeter felt as if it. might 
be permitted. It was his duty to ascertain all he fairly might, con- 
cerning his client. 

It has already been said that this strange girl, extraordinary by 


THE WAYS OE THE HOUR. 


72 

her situation as a person accused of crimes so heinous, and perhaps 
still more so by her manner of bearing up against the terrors and 
mortifications of her condition, as well as by the mystery which so 
completely veiled her past life* was not a beauty, in the common 
acceptation of the term. Nevertheless, not one female in ten thou- 
sand would sooner insnare the heart of a youth, by means of her 
personal attractions alone. It was not regularity of features, nor brill- 
iancy of complexion, nor luster of the eyes, nor any of the more or- 
dinary charms, that gave her this power; but an indescribable union 
of feminine traits, in which intellectual gifts, spirit, tenderness, and 
modesty, were so singularly blended as to leave it questionable 
which had the advantage. Her eyes were of a very gentle and mild 
expression, when in a state ot rest; excited, they were capable of 
opening windows to the inmost soul. Her form w r as faultless; be- 
ing the true medium between vigorous health and womanly deli- 
cacy; which, in this country, implies much less ot the robust and 
solid than one meeis with in the other hemisphere. 

It is not easy to tell how we acquired those in-and-in habits, which 
get to be a sort of second nature, and almost bestow on us new in- 
stincts. It is by these secret sympathies, these tastes that pervade 
the moral, as the nerves form a natural telegraph through the phys- 
ical, system, that on q feels rather than sees , when he is in the com- 
pany of persons in his own class in life. Dress will not afford an 
infallible test on such an occasion, though the daw is instantly seen 
not to be the peacock; neither will address, for the distinctive qual- 
ities lio much deeper than the surface. But so it is; a gentleman can 
hardly be brought into the company of man or woman, with- 
out his at once perceiving whether he or she belongs to his own 
social caste or not. What is more, it a man of the world, he detects 
almost instinctively the degrees of caste, as well as the greater sub- 
divisions, and knows whether his strange companions have seen 
much, or little; whether their gentility is merely the result ot the 
great accident, with its customary advantages, or has been smoothed 
over by a liberal intercourse with the better classes of a general so- 
ciety. Most of all, may a traveled person be known— and that 
more especially in a provincial country like x>uf own— from one 
that has not traveled; though the company kept in other lands nec- 
essarily draw T s an obvious distinction between the last. Now, John 
Wilmeter, always mingling with the best society of his own country, 
had also been abroad, and had obtained that “ second-sight ” which 
so insensibly, but certainly, increases the vision of all Americans 
who enjoy the advantage of acquiring it. Wliat is more, though 
his yeais and the plans of his uncle for his future welfare had pie^ 
vented his staying in Europe long enough to receive all the benefit 
such a tour can bestow, he had remained long enough to pass be- 
yond the study of merely physical things; and had made certain ac- 
quisitions in other matteis, more essential ' to taste if not to char- 
acter. When ah American returns from an excursion into the old 
world, with “ 1 come back better satisfied than ever with my own 
country,” it is an infallible sign that he did not stay long enough 
abroad; and when he returns only to find fault, it is equally proof 
that he has stayed too long. There is a happy medium which teaches 
something near the truth, and that would tell us that there are a 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 73 

thousand things to be amended and improved at hotne, while there 
are almost as many enjoyed, that the oldest and most polished peo- 
ple on earth might envy. John Wilmeter had not reached the point 
that enabled him to make the nicest distinctions, but he was suf- 
ficiently advanced to have detected what he conceived to be signs 
that this singular young creature, unknown, unsupported by any 
who appeared to take an interest in her, besides himself and the ac- 
cidental acquaintances formed under the most painful circum- 
stances, had been abroad; perhaps, had been educated there. The 
regulated tones of one of the sweetest voices he had ever heard, the 
distinctness and precision of her utterance, as far as possible removed 
from mouthing and stiffness, but markedly quiet and even, with a 
total absence of all the affectations of boarding-school grammar, 
were so many proofs of even a European education, as he fancied; 
and before that week was terminated, John had fully made up his 
mind that MaryMonson — though an American by birth, about which 
there could be no dispute— had been well taught in some of the 
schools of the old world. 

This was a conclusion not reached immediately. He had to be 
favored with several interviews, and to worm himself gradually into 
the confidence of his uncle’s client, ere he could be permitted to see 
enough of the subject Of his studies to form an opinion so abstruse 
and ingenious. 

When MaryMonson caught a glimpse of John Wilmeter ’s head 
at her grate — where he stood, respectfully uncovered, as in a lady’s 
presence — a slight flush passed over her face; but expecting him, as 
she did, she could not well be surprised. 

“ This bears some resemblance, Mr. Wilmeter, to an interview in 
a convent,” she then said, with a slight smile, but with perfect 
composure of manner. ‘‘1 am the novice— rand novice am 1, in- 
deed, to scenes like this — you, the excluded friend, who is compelled 
to pay his visit through a grate! 1 must apologize for all the trouble 
1 am giving you.” 

“ Do not name it— l can not be better employed than in your be- 
half. I am rejoiced that you sustain yourself so well against what 
must be a most unheard-of calamity for one like yourself, and can 
not but admire the admirable equanimity with which you bear your 
cruel fortune. ” 

“ Equanimity!” repeated Mary with emphasis, and a slight display 
of intense feeling powerfully controlled; ‘‘if it be so, Mr. Wil- 
meter, it must be from the sensp of security that 1 feel. Yes; for 
the first time in months, 1 do feel myself safe— secure.” 

“ Safe! Secure! What, in a jail?” 

“Certainly: jails are intended for places of security, are they 
not?” answered Mary, smiling, but faintly and with a gleam of sad- 
ness on her face. “ This may appear wonderful to you, but 1 do 
tell no more than sober truth, in repeating that, for the first time in 
months, 1 have now a sense of security. 1 am what you call in the 
hands of the law, and one there must be safe from everything but 
what the law can do to her. Of that I have no serious apprehen- 
sions, and 1 feel happy.” 

“Happy!” 

“ Yes; by comparison, happy. 1 tell you this the more willingly, 


74 THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 

for"! plainly see you feel a generous interest in my welfare— an in- 
terest which exceeds that of the counsel in his client — ” 

“ A thousand times exceeds it, Miss Monson! Nay— is not to be 
named with it!” 

“ 1' thank you, Mr. YV’ilmeter — from my heart I thank you,” re- 
turned the prisoner, a slight flush passing over her features, While 
^ her 6yes were cast toward the floor. “ I believe you are one of 
strong feelings and quick impulses, and am grateful that these have 
been in my favor, under circumstances that might well have excused 
you for thinking the worst. From the hints of this kind woman, 
, Mrs. Gott, X am afraid that the opinion of Biberry is less consol- 
ing'?’ ’ 

\‘ 'You must know how it is in country villages. Miss Monson — 
every one has something to say, and every one brings all things 
down to the lerpl ot his own knowledge and understanding.” 

Mary Monson smiled again; this time more naturally, and with- 
out any painful expression to lessen the bright influence that light- 
'ing up of her features gave, to a countenance so remarkable for its 
appearance of illumination from within. 

“ Is not such the case in towns, as well as in villages, Mr. Wil- 
meter?” she asked. 

” Perhaps it is— but 1 mean that the circle of knowledge is more 
confined in a place like this, than in a large town, and that, the peo- 
ple here could not well go beyond it.” 

“ Biberry is so near New York, that 1 should think, taking class 
against class, no great difference can be found in their inhabitaots. 
That which the good folk of Biberry think of my case, 1 am afraid 
will be thought of it by those of your own town.” 

“ My own town?— and are you not really from New York, Miss 
Monson?” 

“ In no manner,” answered Mary, once more smiling; this time, 
however, because she understood how modestly and readily her 
companion was opening a door by which she might let a secret she 
had declined to reveal to his uncle, escape, “i am not what you 
call a Manhattanese, in either descent, birth, or residence; in no 
sense, whatever.” 

“ But, surely, you have never been educated in the country? You 
must belong to some large town— your manners show that — I mean 
that you—” 

“Do not belong to Biberry. In that you are quite right, sir, 1 
had never seen Biberry three months since; but, as for New York, 
1 have not passed a month there, in my whole life. The longest 
visit 1 ever paid you was one of ten days, when 1 landed, coming 
from Havre, about eighteen months since.” 

“ From Havre! Surely, you are an American, Miss Monson— pur 
wn countrywoman?” 

“ Your own country woman, Mr. AYilmeter, by birth, descent, and 
feelings. But an American, female may visit Europe.” 

, ‘‘Certainly; and be educated there, as I had already suspected 
was your case. ” 

** in part it was, arid in part it was not.” Here Mary paused, 
looked a little arch, seemed to hesitate, and to have some doubts 


T.HE WAYS OF THE HOUE. ' 75 

whether she ought to proceed, or not; but finally added— “ You 
have been abroad, yourself?” 

“ 1 have. 1 was nearly three years in Europe; and have not been 
home yet, quite a twelvemonth.” 

“ You went into the East, 1 believe, after passing a few months in 
the Pyrenees?” continued the prisoner, carelessly. 

“You are quite right; we traveled: as far as Jerusalem. The 
journey has got to be so cohimon, that it is no longer dangerous. 
Even ladies make it, now, without any apprehension.” 

“ 1 am aware of that, having made it myself — ” 

“ You, Miss M,onson! You have been at Jerusalem!” 

“ Why not, Mr. Wilmeter? You say, yourself, that females con- 
stantly'make the journey; why not 1, as well as another?” 

“ 1 scarce know, myself; but it is so strange— all about you is so 
very extraordinary — ” 

“ You think it extraordinary that one of my sex, who has been 
partly educated in Europe, and who has traveled in the Holy Land, 
should be shut up in this jail in Biberry--is it not so?” 

“ That is one view' of the matter, lwill confess; but it was scarce-' 
ly less strange, that such a person should be dwelling in a garret- 
room of a cottage, like that ot these unfortunate Goodwins.” 

“ That touches on my secret, sir; and no more need be said. You 
may judge how important 1 consider that secret, when I know its 
preservation subjects me to the most cruel distrust; and that, too, 
in the minds ot those with whorrfl would so gladly stand fair. Your 
excellent untile, for instance, and— yourself.” 

“ I should be much flattered, could 1 think the last — 1 who have 
scarcely the claim of an acquaintance.” 

“ You forget the situation in which your respectable and most " 
worthy uncle has left ybu here. Mr. Wilmeter; which, of itself, 
gives you higher claims to my thanks and confidence than any that 
mere acquaintance could bestow. Besides, we are not ” — another 
arch, but scarcely perceptible, smile again illuminated that remarka- 
ble countenance — “ the absolute strangers to each other, that you' 
seem to think us.” 

“Not strangers? You amaze me! If I have ever had the 
honor — ” 

“ Honor!” interrupted Mary, a little bitterly. “ It is truly a great 
honor to know one in my situation!” 

“ 1 esteem it an honor; aad no one has a right to call in question 
my sincerity. If we have ever met before, I will frankly own that 
1 am ignorant of both the time and place.” 

‘ This does not surprise me, in the least. The time is long, for 
persons as youug as ourselves, and the place was far away. Ah! 
those were happy days for me, and most gladly would 1 return to 
them! But we have talked enough on this subject. 1 have declined 
telling my tale to your most excellent and very respectable uncle; 
you will, therefore, the more easily excuse me* if 1 decline telling it 
to you.” 

“ Who am not ‘ most excellent and very respectable,’ to recom- 
mend me.” 

“Who are too near my own age, to make you a proper confidant, 
were theie no other objection. The character that 1 learned of you. 


76 THE WAYS OE THE HOUR*. 

•when we met before, Mr. Wilmeter, was, however, one of which 
you have no reason to be ashamed. ” 

This was said gently, but earnestly; was accompanied by a most 
winning smile, and was instantly succeeded by a slight blush. John 
Wilmeter rubbed his forehead, sooth to say, in a somewhat stupid 
manner, as if expecting to brighten his powers of recollection by 
friction. A sudden change was given to the conversation, however, 
by the fair prisoner lierself, who quietly resumed: 

“ We-will defer this part of the subject to another time. 1 did 
not presume to send for you, Mr. Wilmeter, without an object, hav- 
ing your uncle’s authority for giving you all this trouble — ” 

“And my own earnest request to be permitted to serve you, in 
any way 1 could.” 

“ I have not forgotten that o&er, nor shall 1 ever, The man who 
is willing to serve a woman, whom all around her frown on, has a 
fair claim to be remembered. Good Mrs. Gott and yourself are the 
only two friends 1 have in Bi berry. Even your companion, Mr. 
Millington, is a little disposed to judge me harshly. 

John started; the movement was so natural, that his honest coun- 
tenance would have betrayed him, had he been disposed to deny the 
imputation. 

“ That Millington has fallen into the popular notion about here, 
1 must allow, Miss Monson; but he is an excellent fellow at the 
bottom, and will hear reason. Prejudices that are beyond reason 
are detestable, aud 1 generally avoid those whose characters manifest 
this weakness; but Mike will always listen to what he calls ‘law 
and facts,’ and so we get along very well together.” 

“ It is fortunate; since you are about to be so nearly connected—” 

“ Connected! Is -it possible that you know this circumstance?” 

“ You will find in the end, Mr. Wilmeter,” returned the prisoner, 
smiling— this time, naturally, as one manifests satisfaction without 
pain. of any sort — “ that I know more of your private afiairs than you 
had supposed. But let me come to business, if you please, sir> 1 
have great occasion here for a maid-servant. Do you not think 
that Miss Wilmeter might send me one from town?” 

“ A servant! 1 know the very woman that will suit you. A 
pel feet jewel, in her way!” 

“ That is a very housekeeper sort of a character,” rejoined Mary, 
absolutely laughing, in spite of her prison walls ^and all the terrible 
charges that had brought her witniu them: “ just such a character 
as 1 might have expected from Doctor McBrainVintended, Mrs. 
Updyke — ” 

“ And you know it, too! Why will you not tell us more, since 
you tell us so much?” 

“ In good time, 1 suppose all will come out. Well, 1 endeavor 
to submit to my fate; or to the will of God!” There was no longer 
anything merry, in voice, face, or manner, but a simple, natural 
pathos was singularly mixed in the tones with which those few 
words' were uttered. Then rousing herself, she gravely resumed 
the subject which had induced her to send for John. 

“ You will pardon me, it I say that I would prefer a woman 
chosen and recommended by your sister, Mr. Wilmeter, than one 
chosen and recommended by yourself,” said Mary. “ When I shall 


THE' WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


77 

have occasion for a footman, 1 will take your advice. It is very 
important that 1 should engage a respectable, discreet woman ; and 
I will venture to write a line, myself, to Miss Wilmeter, it you will 
be so kind as to send it. I know this is not the duty of a counsel; 
but you see my situation. Mrs. Gott has ottered to procure a girl 
for me, it is true; but the prejudice is so strong against me in 
Biberry, that 1 doubt if the proper sort of person could be ob- 
tained. At any rate, I should be receiving a spy into my little 
household, instead of a domestic, in whom 1 could place confi- 
dence.” 

“ Sarah would join me in recommending Marie, who has been 
with herself more than two years, and only left her to take care of 
her father, in his last illness. Another, equally excellent, has been 
taken in her place; and now, that she wishes to return to my sister’s 
service, there is no opening for her. Mike Millington is dying to 
return to town, and will gladly go over. this evening. By breakfast- 
time to-morrow, the woman might be here, it — ” 

“ She will consent to serve a mistress in my cruel situation. 1 
feel the full weight of the objection, and know how difficult it will 
be to get a female, who values her character as a servant, to enter on 
such an engagement. You called this woman Marie; by that, 1 
take it she is a foreigner?” 

“ A Swiss — her parents emigrated; but 1 knew her in the service 
of an American family, abroad, and got her for Sarah. She is the 
best creature in the world — it she can be persuaded to come.” 

” Had she been an American, 1 should have despaired of succeed- 
ing unless her feelings could -have been touched; but, as she is a 
foreigner, perhaps money will procure her services. Should Miss 
Wilmeter approve of your selection, sir, I will entreat her to go as 
high as fifty dollars a month, rather than not get the sort of person 
I want. Toucan imagine how much importance 1 attach to suc- 
cess. To escape remarks and gossiping, the person engaged can 
join me as a companion, or friend, and not as a servant.” 

“ 1 will get Mike off ip half an hour, and Sarah will at least make 
an effort. Yes, Marie Moulin, or Mary Mill, as the girls call her, 
is just the thing!” 

Marie Moulin! Is that the name of the woman? She who was 
in the service of the Barringers, at Paris? Do you mean that per- 
son— five-and-tliirty, slightly pock-marked, with light blue eyes, 
and yellowish hair — more like a German, than her French name 
would give reason to expect?” 

“The very same; and you knew her, too! Why not bring all 
your friends around you at once, Miss Monson, and not remain here 
an hour longer than is necessary.” 

Mary was too inleni on ihe subject of engaging the woman in 
question, to answer this last appeal. Earnestly did she resume her 
instructions, therefore, and with an eagerness of manner yoyng 
Wilmeter had never before observed in her. 

“ If Marie Moulin be the person meant,” she said, “ 1 will spare 
no pains to obtain her services. Her attentions to poor Mrs. Bar- 
ringer, in her last illness, were admirable; and we all loved her, I 
may say. Beg your sister to tell her, Mr. Wilmeter, that an old 


78 THE WATS OF THE HOUR. 

acquaintance, in distress, implores her assistance. That will bring 
Marie, sooner than money, Swiss though she be.” 

“ If you would write her a line, inclosing your real name, for we 
are persuaded it is not Monson, it might have more effect than all 
our solicitations, in behalf of one that is unknown.” - 

The prisoner turned slowly from the grate, and walked up and 
down her gallery for a minute or two, as if pondering on this pro- 
posal. Once she smiled, and it almost gave a luster to her remark- 
able countenance; then a cloud passed over her face, and once more 
she appeared sad. 

“No,” she said, stopping near the grate again, in one of her 
turns. “ I will not do it — it will be risking too much. I can do 
nothing, just now, that will tell more of me than your sister can 
state. ’ 1 

‘ Should Marie Moulin know you, she must recognize you when 
you meet.” 

*‘ It will be wiser to proceed a little in the dark. 1 confide all to 
your powers of negotiation, and shall remain as tranquil as possible, 
until to-morrow morning. There is still another little affair that X 
must trouble you with, Mr. Wilmeter. My gold is sequestered, as 
you know, and 1 am reduced to an insufficient amount of tw r os and 
threes. Might t ask the favor of you to obtain smaller notes for this, 
without mentioning in whose behalf it is done?” 

While speaking, Mary handed through the grate a hundred dol- 
lar note of one of the New York banks, wjth a manner so natural 
and unpretending, as at once to convince John Wilmeter, ever so 
willing to be persuaded into anything in her favor, that she was 
accustomed to the use of money in considerable sums; or, what 
might be considered so, for the wants and habits of a female. 
Luckily, he had nearly money enough in his wallet to change the 
note, making up a small balance that was needed, by drawing five 
half eagles from his curse. The prisoner held the last, in the open 
palm of one of the most beautiful little hands the eyes of man ever 
rested on. 

V This metal has been my "bane, in more ways than one, Mr. Wil- 
meter,” she said, looking mournfully at the coin. “ Of one of its evil 
influences on my fate, 1 may not speak now, if ever; but you will 
understand me when 1 say, that I fear that gold piece of Italian 
money is the principal cause of my being where 1 am.” 

“ No doubt it has been considered one of the most material of 
the facts against you. Miss Monson; though it is by no means con- 
clusive, as evidence, even with the most bitter and prejudiced.” 

“ 1 hope not. Now, Mr. Wilmeter, 1 will detain you no longer; 
but beg you to do my commission with your sister, as you would 
do it for her with me. 1 would write, but my hand is so peculiar, 
it were better that 1 did not.” 

Mary Monson now dismissed the young man, with the manner of 
one very familiar with the tone of good -society— a term that it is 
much the fashion to ridicule just now, but which conveys a mean- 
ing that it were better the scoffers understood. This she did, how- 
ever, ’after again apologizing for the trouble she was giving, and 
thanking him earnestly for the interest he took in her affairs. We 
believe in animal magnetism; and can not pretend to say what is 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 79 

the secret cause of the powerful sympathy that is so often suddenly 
awakened between persons of different sexes, and, in some instances, 
between those who are of the same sex; but Mary Monson, by that 
species of instinct that teaches the female where she has awakened 
an interest livelier than common, and possibly where she has not* 
was certainly already aware that John Wiimeter did not regard her 
with the same cool indifference he would have felt toward an 
ordinary client of his uncle’s. In thanking him, therefore, her own 
manner manifested a little of the reflected feeling that such a state 
of things is pretty certain to produce. She colored, and slightly hes- 
itated once, as if she paused to choose her terms with more than 
usual care; but, in the main, acquitted herself well. The parting 
betrayed interest, perhaps feeling, on both sides; but nothing very 
manifest escaped either of our young people. 

Never had John Wiimeter been at a greater loss to interpret facts, 
than he was on quitting the grate. The prisoner was truly the most 
incomprehensible being he had ever met with. Notwithstanding 
the fearful nature of the charges against her — charges that rnisrht 
well have given great uneasiness to the firmest man — she actually 
seemed in love with her prison, li is true, that worthy Mrs. Gott 
had taken from the place many of its. ordinary, repulsive features; 
but it was still a jail, and the sun could be seen only through grates, 
and massive walls separated her that was within, from the world 
without. As the young man was predisposed to regard everything 
connected with this extraordinary young woman, couleur de rose 
however, he saw nothing but the surest signs of innocence in several 
circumstances that might have increased the distrust of his cooler- 
headed uncle; but most persons would have regarded the gentle 
tranquillity, that now seemed to soothe a spirit that had evidently 
been much troubled of late, as a sign that her hand could never 
have committed the atrocities with which she was charged. 

“ Is she not a sweet young thing, Mr. Wiimeter?” exclaimed kind 
Mrs. Gott, while locking the doors after John, on his retiring from 
the grate. “ I consider it an honor to Biberry jail, to ha\e such a 
prisoner within its walls!” 

“ I believe that you and I stand alone in our favorable opinion of 
Miss Monson,” John answered; “ so far, at least, as Biberry is' con- 
cerned. The excitement against he! seems to be at the highest pitch; 
and I much doubt whether a fair trial can be had in the county.” 

“ The newspapers won’t mend the matter, sir. The papersfrom 
town, this morning, are full of the affair, and they all appear to lean 
the same way. But it’s a long road that has no turning, Mr. Wii- 
meter.” 

“ Very true, and nothing wheels about with a quicker step than 
the sort of public opinion that is got up under a cry, and runs itself 
out of breath, at the start. 1 expect to see Mary Monson the most 
approved and most extolled woman in this county, yet!” 

Mrs. Gott hoped with all her heart that it might be so, though 
shx had, certainly, misgivings that the young man did not feel. Half 
an hour after John Wiimeter had left the jail, his friend, Michael 
Millington, was on the road to town, carrying a letter to Sarah, 
with a most earnest request that she would use all her influence with 
Marie Moulin to engage in the unusual service asked of her, for a 


THE WAYS' OF THE HOUR. 


80 

few weeks, if for no longer a period. This letter reached its desti- 
nation in due time, and greatly did the.sister marvel over its warmth, 
as well as over the nature of the request. 

“I never knew John to write so earnestly!” exclaimed Sarah, 
when she and Michael had talked over the matter a few moments. 
“Were he actually in love, 1 could not expect him to be more 
pressing.” 

“ 1 will not swear that he is not,” returned the friend, laughing. 
“ He sees everything with eyes so different from mine, that I scarce 
know what .to make of him. 1 have never known John so deeply 
interested in any human being, as he is at this moment in this 
strange creature!” 

‘‘ Creature! You men do not often call young ladies creatures; and 
my brother affirms that this Mary Monson is a lady.” 

“ Certainly she is, so far as exterior, manner, education, and 1 
suppose, tastes, are concerned. Nevertheless, there is too much 
reason to think she is, in some way unknown to us, connected with 
crime.” 

“ 1 have read accounts of persons of. these attainments, who have- 
been leagued together, and have carried on a great system of plun- 
dering for years, with prodigious success. That, however, was in 
older countries, where the necessities of a crowded population drive 
men into extremes. We are hardly sufficiently advanced, or civ- 
ilized a3 they call it, for such bold vilfany.” 

“A suspicion of that nature lias crossed my mind,” returned 
Millington, looking askance over his shoulder, as if he apprehended 
that his friend might hear him. “It will not do, however, to re- 
motely hint to John anything of the sort. His mind is beyond the 
influence of testimony.” 

Sarah scarce knew what to make of the affair, though sisterly 
regard disposed her to do all she could to oblige her brother. Marie 
Moulin, however, was not easily persuaded into consenting to serve 
a mistress who was in prison. She held up her hands, turned up 
her eyes, uttered fifty exclamations, and declared, over and over 
again “ c'est impossible;" and wondered how a female in such a situa- 
tion could suppose any respectable domestic would serve her, as it 
would be very sure to prevent her ever getting a good place after- 
ward. This last objection struck Sarah as quite reasonable, and 
had not her brother been so very urgent with her, would of itself 
have induced her to abandon all attempt at persuasion. Marie, 
however, finally yielded to a feeling of intense curiosity, when no 
bribe in* money could have bought her. John had said the prisoner 
knew her— had known her in Europe — and she was soon dying with 
the desire to know who, of all her many acquaintances in the old 
world, could be the particular individual who had got herself into 
this formidable difficulty. It was impossible to resist this feeling, 
so truly feminine, which was a good deal stimulated by a secret 
wish in Sarah, also, to learn who this mysterious person might be; 
and who did not fail to urge Marie, with* all her rhetoric, to consent 
to go and, at least, see the person who had so strong a wish to 
engage’ her services. The Swiss had not so much difficulty in com- 
plying, provided' sjie was permitted to reserve her final decision 
until she had met the prisoner, when she might gratify her curiosity. 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


SI 


and return to town prepared to enlighten Miss Wilmeter, and all 
her other friends, on a subject that had got to be intensely interest- 
ing. . 

It was not late, next morning* when Marie Moulin, attended by 
John Wilmeter, presented herself to Mrs. Gott, as an applicant for 
admission to the gallery of Mary Monson. The young man did not 
show himself, on this occasion; though he was near enough to hear 
the grating of the hinges when the prison-door opened. 

“ C’est bien vous done, Marie!” said the prisoner, in a quick but. 
pleased salutation. 

“ Mademoiselle!” exclaimed the Swiss. The kisses ot women 
succeeded. The door closed, and John Wilmeter learned no more, 
on that occasion. 


CHAPTER Y1I1. 

And can you by no drift of conference 
Get from him why he puts on this confusion— 

Hamlet. 

There is something imaginative, if not very picturesque, in the 
manner in which the lawyers of Manhattan occupy the buildings of 
Nassau Street, a thoroughfare which connects Wall Streef, with the 
Tombs. There they throng, resembling the remains, of so many 
monuments along the Appian Way, with a “ siste, viator ” of their 
own, to arrest the footsteps of the wayfarer. We must now transfer 
the scenn to a building in this street, which stands about half-way 
between Maiden Lane and John Street, having its front plastered 
over with little tin signs, like a debtor marked by writs, or what 
are now called “ complaints.” Among these signs, which afforded 
some such pleasant reading as an almanac, was one that bore this 
simple and reasonably intelligent inscription: 

“ Thomas Dunscomb, 2d floor, in front.” 

It is somewhat singular that terms as simple as those of first floor, 
second floor, etc,, should not signify the same things in the language 
of the mother country and that of this land of progress and liberty. 
Certain it is, nevertheless, that in American parlance, more espe- 
cially in that of Manhattan, a first floor is never up one pair of stairs, 
as in London, unless indeed the flight is that by which the wearied 
foot-passenger' climbs the high stoop to gain an entrance into the 
building. In other words, an English first floor corresponds with 
an American second; ana, taking that as the point of departure, the 
same difference exists throughout. Tom Dunscomb’s office (or 
offices would be the better term) occupied quite half of the second 
story of a large double house, that had once been»the habitation of 
some private family of note, but which had long been abandoned to 
the occupation of these ministers of the law. Into those offices it 
has now become our duty to accompany one who seemed a little 
strange in that den, of the profession, at the very moment he was 
perfectly at home. 

“ Lawyer Dunscomb in?” demanded this person, who had a de- 
cided rustic mien, though* his dress had a sort of legal dye on it. 


82 THE WAYS OF THE' HOUE. 

speaking to one of the five or six clerks who raised their heads on 
the stranger’s entrance. 

“In, but engaged in a consultation, 1 believe,” answered one 
•who, being paid for his services, was the working clerk of the 
office; most of the others being students who get no remuneration 
for their time, and who very rarely deserve it. 

“ I’ll wait till he is through,” returned the stranger, helping him- 
self coolly to a vacant chair, and taking his seat in the midst of 
dangers that might have alarmed one less familiar with the snares, 
and quirks, and quiddities of the law. The several clerks, after 
taking a good look each at their guest, cast their eyes down on their 
books or foolscap, and seemed to be engrossed with their respective 
occupations. Most of the young men, members of respectable 
families in town, set the stranger down for a rustic -client; but the 
working clerk saw at once, by a certain self-possessed and shrewd 
manner, that the stranger was a country pr petitioner. 

In the course of the next half hour, Daniel Lord and George Wood 
came out of the sanctum, attended as far as the door by Dunscomb 
himself. Exchanging “ good-morning ” with his professional 
friends, the last caught a glimpse of his patient visitor, whom he im- 
mediately saluted by the somewhat brief and familiar name of 
Timms, inviting him instantly, and with earnestness, to come within 
the limits oi the privileged. Mr. Timms complied, entering the 
sanctum with the air of one who had been there before, and appear- 
ing to be in no manner overcome by the honor he enjoyed. And 
now, as a faithful chronicler of events, it is here become our pain- 
ful, not to say revolting duty, to record an act on the part of the 
man who was known throughout Dukes County as Squire Timms, 
which it will never do to overlook, since it has got to be perfectly 
distinctive and characteristic of late years, not of an individual, but 
oi large classes who throng the bar, the desk, the steam-boats, the 
taverns, the streets. A thousand paragraphs have been written on 
the subject of American spitting, and not one line, as we can remem- 
ber, on the. subject of an equally common and still grosser offense 
against the minor morals of the country, if decency in manners may 
be thus termed. Our meaning will be explained more fully in the 
narrative of the stranger’s immediate movements on entering the 
sanctum 

“ Take a seat, Mr. Timms,” said Dunscomb, motioning to a chair, 
while he resumed his own well-cushioned seat, and deliberately pro- 
ceeded to light a cigar, not without pressing several with a species of 
intelligent tenderness, between his thumb and finger. “ Take a seat, 
sir; and take a cigar.” 

Here occurred the great tour deforce in manners of Squire Timms. 
Considerately turning his person quartering toward his host, and 
seizing himself by the nose, much as if he had a quarrel with that 
member of his face, he blowed a blast that sounded sonorously, and 
which fulfilled all that it promised. Now a better-mannered man 
than Dunscomb it would not be easy to find. He was not particu- 
larly distinguished for elegance of deportment, but he was perfectly 
well-bred. Nevertheless, be did not flinch before this broad hint 
from vulgarity, but stood it unmdved. To own the truth, so large 
lias been the inroad from the base of society, within the last five- 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUE. - 83 

and twenty years, on the habits of those who once exclusively 
dwelt together, that he had got hardened even to this innovation. 
The tact is not to be concealed, and, as we intend never to touch 
upon the subject again, we shall say distinctly that Mr. Timms 
blew his nose with his fingers, and that, in so doing, he did not 
innovate half as much, to-day, on the usages, of the Upper Ten 
Thousand, as he would have done had he blown his nose with his 
thumb only, a quarter ot a century since. 

Dunscomb bore this infliction philosophicallv; and well he might, 
for there was no remedy. Waiting for Timms to use his handker- 
chief, which was produced somewhat tardily for such an operation, 
he quietly opened the subject ot their interview. 

“So the grand jury has actually found a bill for murder and 
arson, my nephew writes me,” Dunscomb observed, looking in- 
quiringly at his companion, as if really anxious lor further intelli- 
gence. 

Unanimously, they tell me, Mr. Dunscomb,” answered Timms. 
“ 1 understand that only one man hesitated, and he was brought 
round before they came into court. That piece of money damns 
our case in old Dukes.” 

“ Money saves mqre cases than it damns, Timms; and no one 
knows it better than yourself.” 

“ Very true, sir. Money may defy even the new Code. Clive me 
five hundred dollars, and change the proceedings to a civil action, 
and I’ll carry anything in my own county that you’ll put on the 
calendar, barring some twenty or thirty jurors 1 could name. There 
are about thirty men in the county that 1 can do nothing with— for 
that matter, whom 1 dare not approach. ” 

“ Dow the deuce is it, Timms, that you manage your causes with 
so much success? for 1 remember you have given me a good deal of 
trouble in suits in which law and fact were both clearly enough on 
my side.” 

“ i suppose those must have been causes in which we * horse- 
shedded ’ and ‘ pillowed ’ a good deal.” 

“ Horse-shedded and pillowed! Those are legal terms ot which 
1 have no knowledge!” 

“ They are country phrases, sir, and country customs too, for that 
matter. A man might practice a long life in town, and know noth- 
ing about them. The Halls of Justice are not immaculate; but they 
can tell us nothing of horse-shedding and pillowing. They do busi- 
ness in a way of which we in the country are just as ignorant as 
you aie of our mode.” 

“ Have the goodness, Timms, just to explain the meaning of your 
terms, which are quite new to me. I will not swear they are not in 
the Code of Practice, but they* are in neither Blackstone nor Kent.” 

*• Horse-shedding, Squire Dunscomb, explains itself. In the 
country, most of the jurors, witnesses, etc., have more or less to do 
with the horse-sheds, if it’s only to see that theii beasts are fed. 
Well, we keep proper talkers there, and it must be a knotty case, 
indeed, into which an ingenious hand can cot thrust a doubt or an 
argument. To be frank with you, I’ve known three pretty difficult 
suits summed up under a horse-shed in one day; and twice as many 
opened.” 


84 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


“ But how is this done? — do you present your arguments directly, 
as in court?'’ 

“ Lord bless you, no. In court, unless the 7 jury happen to be un- 
usually excellent, counsel have to pay some little regard to the testi- 
mony and the law; but, in horse-shedding, one has no need of either. 

A skillful horse-shedder, for instance, will talk a party to pieces, and 
not say a word about the ease. That’s the perfection of the busi- 
ness. It’s against the law, you know, Mr. Dunscomb, to talk of a 
case before a juror — an indictable offense— but one may make a case 
of a party’s general character, of his means, his miserly qualities, or 
his aristocracy; and it will be hard to get hold of the talker for any 
of them qualities. Aristocracy, of late years, is a capital argument, 
and will suit almost any state of facts, or any action you cau bring. 
Only persuade the jury that the plaintiff or defendant fancies him- 
self better than they are, and the verdict is certain. 1 got a thou- 
sand dollars in the Springer case, solely on that ground. Aristocracy 
did it! It is going to do us a great deal of harm in this murder and 
arson indictment.” 

“ But Mary Monson is no aristocrat — she is a stranger, and un- 
known. What privileges does she enjoy, to render her obnoxious 
to the charge of aristocracy?” 

“ More than will do her any good. Her aristocrac} r does her al- 
most as much harm in old Dukes as the piece of gold. 1 always 
consider a cause as half lost, when there is any aristocracy in it.” 

‘‘ Aristocracy means exclusive political privileges in the hands of 
a few.; and it means nothing else. Now, what "exclusive political 
privileges does this unfortunate young woman enjoy? She is ac- - 
cused of two of the highest crimes known to the laws; is indicted, 
imprisoned, and will be tried.” 

‘‘Yes, and by her peers ,” said Timms, taking out a very respect- 
able-looking box, and helping himself liberally to a pinch of cut 
tobacco. ‘‘ It’s wonderful, Squire Dunscomb, how much breadth 
the peerage possesses in this country! I saw a trial, a year or two 
since, in which one of the highest intellects of the land was one of 
the parties, and in which a juror asked the judge to explain the 
meaning of the word ‘ bereaved.’ That citizen had his rights re- 
ferred to his peers, with a vengeance!” 

‘‘Yes; the venerable maxim of the common law is, occasionally, 
a little caricatured among us. This is owing to our adhering to 
antiquated opinions after the facts in which "they had their origin 
have ceased to exist. But, by your manner of treating the subject, 
Timms, I infer that you give up the aristocracy. ” 

“ Not at all. Our client will have more risks to run on account 
of that, than on account of any other weak spot in her case. I think ~ 
we might get along with the piece of gold, as a life is in question, 
but it is not quite so easy to see how we are to get along with the 
aristocracy.” 

“ And this in the face of her imprisonment, solitary condition, 
friendless £tate, and utter dependence un strangers for her future 
fate? 1 see no one feature of aristocracy to reproach her with.” 

“ But I see a great many, and so does the neighborhood. It is " 
already getting to be the talk of half the county. In short, all are 
talking about it> but lliey who know T better. You’ll see, Squire 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


85 


Dunscomb, there are two sorts of aristocracy in the eyes of most 
people; your sort and my sort. Tour sort is a state of society that 
gives privileges and power to a few, and keeps it there. Tligt is 
what 1 call old-fashioned aristocracy, about which nobody cares 
anything in this country. We have no such aristocrats, 1 allow, 
and consequently they don’t signify a straw.” 

“ Yet they are the only true aristocrats, after all. But what, or 
who are yours?” 

‘‘ Well, now, sqnire, you are a sort of aristocrat yourself, io a 
certain tvay. 1 don’t know how it is — I’m admitted to the bar as 
well as you — have just as many rights — ” 

“ More, Timms, if leading jurors by the nose, and horse-shed- 
ding, can be accounted rights.” 

‘‘ Well, more, in some respects, maybe. Notwithstanding all 
this, there is a difference bet ween us — a difference in our ways, in 
our language, in our ideas, our manner of thinking and acting, that 
sets you up above me in a way 1 should not like in any other man. 
As you did so much for me when a boy, sir, and carried me through 
to the bar on your shoulders, as it might be, 1 snail always look up 
to you; though I must say that 1 do not always like even your 
superiority.” 

“ 1 should be sorry, Timms, if I ever so far forget my own great 
defects, as to parade unfeelingly any little advantages 1 may happen 
to possess over you, or over any other man, in consequence of the 
accidents of birth and education.” 

“ You do not parade them unfeelingly, sir; you do not parade 
them at all. Still, they will show themselves; and they are just 
the things I do not like to look at. Now, what is true of me, is 
true of all my neighbors. We call, anything aristocracy that is a 
touch above us, let it be what it may. 1 sometimes think Squire 
Dunscomb is a sort of an aristocrat in the law! Now, as for our 
client, she has a hundred ways with her that are not the ways of 
Dukes, unless you go among the dip-toppers.” 

“ The Upper Ten—” 

“ Pshaw! 1 know better than that myself, squire. Their Upper 
Ten should be upper one, or two, to be common sense. Rude and 
untaught as 1 was until you took me by the hand, sir, 1 can tell the 
difference between those who wear kids, and ride in their coaches, 
and those who are fit for either. Our client has none of this, sir; 
and that it is which surprises me. She has no Union Place, or 
Fifth Avenue, about her, but is the true coin. There is one thing 
in particular that I’m afraid may do her harm.” 

“It is the true coin which usually passes with the least trouble 
from hand to hand. But what is this particular source of uneasi- 
ness?” 

“ Why, the client has a lady friend—” 

A little exclamation from Dunscomb caused the speaker to pause, 
while the counselor removed the cigar from his mouth, knocked 
off its ashes, and appeared to ponder for a moment, touching the 
best manner of treating a somewhat delicate subject. At length, 
native frankness overcame all scruples, and he spoke plainly, or as 
the familiar instructor might be expected to address a very green 
pupil. 


86 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


“If von love me, Timms, never repeat that diabolical phrase 
again,” said Dunscbmb, looking quite serious, however much there 
might have been of affectation in his aspect. “ It is even worse 
than Hurl gate, which 1 have told you fifty times I can not endure. 

‘ Lady friend ’ is infernally vulgar, and I will not stand it. You 
may blow your nose with your fingers, if it give you especial satis- 
faction, and you may blow out against aristocracy as much as you 
please; but you shall not talk to me about ‘ lady friends ’ or ‘ Hurl- 
gate.’ 1 am no dandy, but a respectable elderly gentleman, w ho 
professes to speak English, and who wishes to be addressed in his 
own language. Heaven knows what the country is coming to f 
There is Webster, to begin with, cramming a Yankee dialect down 
our throats for good English; then comes all the cant of the day, 
flourishing finical phrases, and new significations to good old home- 
ly words, and changing the very nature of mankind by means of 
terms. Last of all, is this infernal Code, in which the ideas are as 
bad as possible, and the terms still worse. But whom do you mean 
by your ‘ lady friend ’?” 

“ The French lady that has been with our client, now, for a fort- 
night. Depend on it, she will do us no good when we are on. She 
is too aristocratic altogether.” 

Dunscomb laughed outright. Then he passed a hand across his 
brow, and seemed to muse. 

“ All this is very serious,” lie at length replied, “ and is really no 
laughing matter. A pretty pass are we coming t.o, if the adminis- 
tration of the law is to be influenced by such things as these! The 
doctrine is openly held that the rich shall not, ought not to, embellish 
their amusements at a cost that the poor can not compass; and here 
we have a member of the bar telling us a prisoner shall not have 
justice because she has a foreign maid-servant!” 

“ A servant! Call her anything but that, squire, if you wish for 
success! A prisoner accused of capital crimes, with a servant, 
would be certain to be condemned. Even the court would hardly 
stand that." 

“ Timms, you are a shrewd, sagacious fellow, and are apt to 
laugh in your sleeve at follies of this nature, as I well know from 
lung acquaintance; and here you insist on one of the greatest of all 
absurdities.” 

“ Things are changed in Ameriky, Mr. Dunscomb. The people 
are beginning to govern; and when they can’t do it legally they do 
it without law. Don’t you see what the papers say about having 
operas and play-houses at the people's prices, and the right to hiss? 
There’s Constitution for you I 1 wonder what Kent and Blackstone 
would say to that?” 

“ Sure enough. They would find some novel features in a liberty 
which says a man shall not set the price on the seats in his own 
theater, and .that the hissing maybe done by an audience in the 
streets . The facts are, Timms, that all these abuses about O. P.’s, 
and controlling other persons’ concerns under the pretense that the 
public has rights wheie, as a public, it has no rights at all, come 
from the reaction of a half-way liberty in other countries. Here, 
where the people are really free, having all the power, and where 


THE WAYS .OF v THE HOUR. 87 

no political right is hereditary, the people ought, at least, to respect 
their own ordinances.” 

‘‘Do you not consider a theater a public place. Squire Duns- 
oomb?” 

“ In one sense it is, certainly; but not in the sense that bears on 
this pretended power over it. The very circumstance that the au- 
dience pay for their seats, makes it, in law as in fact, a matter, of 
covenant. As for this new-fangled absurdity about its being a duty 
to furnish low-priced seats for the poor, where they* may sit and 
. look at pretty women because tney can not see them elsewhere, it is 
scarcely worth an argument. If the rich should demand that the 
wives and daughters of the poor should be paraded in the pits and 
galleries, for their patrician eyes to feast on, a pretty clamor there 
would be! If the State requires cheap theaters, and cheap women, 
let the State pay tor them, as it does for its other wants; but, if 
these amusements are to be the object of private speculations, let 
private wisdom control them. 1 have no respect for one-sided 
liberty, let it cant as much as it may.” 

“ Well, 1 don’t know, sir; l have read some of these articles, and 
they seemed to me — ” 

“ What — convincing?” 

“ Perhaps not just that, squire; but very agreeable. I’m not rich 
enough.to pay for a high place at an opera or a theater; and it is 
pleasant to fancy that a poor feller can get one of the best seats at 
balf-price. Now, in England, they tell me, the public won’t stand 
prices they don’t like.” 

“ Individuals of the public may refuse to purchase, and there 
their rights cease. An opera, in particular, is a very expensive 
amusement; and in all countries where the rates of admission are 
low, the governments coutribule to the expenditures. This is done 
from policy, to keep the people quiet, and possibly to help civilize 
them; but if we are not tar beyond Ihe necessity of any such ex- 
pedients, our institutions are nothing but a sublime mystification.” 

” It is wonderful, squire, how many persons see the loose side of 
democracy, who have no notion of the tight! But, all this time, 
our client is in jail at Biberry, and must be tried next week. Has 
nothing been done, squire, to choke oft the newspapers, who have 
something to say about her almost every day? It’s quite time the 
other side should be heard.” 

“ It is very extraordinary that the persons who control these papers 
should be so indifferent to the rights of others as to allow such 
paragraphs to find a place in their columns.” 

“ Indifferent! What do they care, so long as the journal sells? 
In our case, however, 1 rather suspect that a certain reporter has 
taken offense; and when men of that class get offended, look out 
for news of the color of their anger. Isn’t it wonderful, Squire 
Dunscomb, that the people don’t see and feel that they* are sustain- 
ing low tyrants, in two thirds of their silly clamor about the liberty 
of the press?” 

“ Many do see it; and I think this engine has lost a great deal of 
its influence within the last few years. "As respects proceedings in 
the courts, there never will be any true liberty in the country, until 
the newspapers are bound hand and foot.” 


88 THE WAYS OF, THE HOUR. 

“You are right enough in one thing, squire, and that is in the 
ground the press has lost. It has pretty much used itself up in 
Dukes; and 1 would pillow and liorse-shed a cause through against 
it, the best day it ever saw!” 

“ By the way, Timms, youfiave not explained the pillowing; proc- 
ess to me.” 

“ 1 should think the world itself would do that, sir. You know 
how it is in the country. Half a dozen beds are put in the same 
room, and two in a bed. Wall, imagine three or four jurors in one 
of >hese rooms, and two chaps along with ’em, with instructions 
how to talk. The conversation is the most innocent aDd nat’ial in 
the world; not a. word too much or too little; but it sticks like a 
bur. The juror is a plain, simple-minded countryman, and swal- 
lows all that his room-mates say, and goes into the box next day in 
a beautiful frame of mind to listen to reason and evidence! No, no; 
give me two or three of these pillow-counselors, and I’ll undo all 
that the journals can do, in a single conversation. You’ll remem- 
ber, squire, that we get the last word by this system; and it the first 
blow is half the battle in war, the last word is another half in the 
law. Oh! it’s a beautiful business, is this trial by jury.” 

“ All this is very wrong, Timms. For a long time 1 have known 
that you have exercised an extraordinary influence over tfie jurors 
of Dukes; but this is the first occasion on which you have been 
frank enough to reveal the process.” 

“ Because this is the first occasion on which we have ever had a 
capital case together. In the present state of public opinion, in 
Dukes, I much question whether we can get a jury impaneled in 
this trial at all.” 

“ The Supreme Court will then send uf to town, by way of 
mending the matter. Apropos, Timms— 

“ One word, if you please, squire; what does d propos really ' 
mean? I hear it almost every day, but never yet knew the mean- 
ing.” 

“ It has shades of difference in its signification— as 1 just used it, 
it means ‘ speaking of that. ’ ” 

“ And is it right to say d propos to such a thing?” 

“It is better to say. propos of, as the French do. In old 
English it was always to ; but in our later mode of speaking, we 
say ‘ of . ’ ” 

“ Thank you, sir. You know how 1 glean my knowledge in drib- 
lets; and out in the country not always from the highest authorities. 
Plain and uncouth as I know I appear to you, and to Miss Sarah, I 
have an ambition to be a gentleman. Now, 1 have observation 
enough to see that it is these little matters, after all, and not riches 
and fine clothes, that make gentlemen and ladies.” 

“lam glad you have so much discrimination, Timms; but, you 
must permit me to remark, that you will never make a gentleman 
until you learn to let your nose alone.” 

“ Thank you, sir— J am thankful for even the smallest hints on 
manners. It’s a pity that so handsome and so agreeable a young 
lady should be hanged, Mr. Dunscomb!” 

“Timms, you are as shrewd a fellow, in your own way, as 1 
knbw. Your law does not amount to any great matter, nor do you 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


89 


take hold of the strong points of a case very often; but you perform 
wonders with the weaker. In the way of an opinion on facts, 1 
know few men more to be relied on. Tell me, then, frankly, what 
do you think of the guilt or innocence of Mary Monson?” 

Timms screwed up his mouth, passed a hand over his brow, apd 
did not answer for near a minute. 

“ Perhaps it is right, after all, that we should understand each 
, other on this subject,” he then said. “We are associated as coun- 
sel, and 1 feel it a great honor to be so associated, Squire Dunscomb, 
1 give you my word; and it is proper that we should be as free with 
each other as brothers. In the first place, then, 1 never saw such a 
client before, as this same lady— for lady I suppose we must call 
her until she is convicted—” 

“ Convicted! You can not think there is much danger of that , 
Timms?” 

“We never know, sir; we never know 7 . 1 have lost cases of 
which I was sure, and gained them of which 1 had no hopes— cases 
which I certainly ought not to have gained— ag’in all law and the 
facts.” 

“ Ay, that came of the horse-shed, and the sleeping of two in a 
bed.”' 

“ Perhaps it did, squire,” returned Timms, laughing very freely, 
though without making any noise; “perhaps it did. When the 
small -pox is about, there is no telling who may take it. As for this 
case, Squire Dunscomb, it is my opinion we shall have to run for 
disagreements, if we can get the juries to disagree once or twice, 
and can get a change of venue, with a couple of charges, the deuce is 
in it if a man of your experience don’t corner them so tightly, 
they’ll give the matter up, rather than have any more trouble 
about it. After all, the State can’t gain much by hanging a young 
woman that nobody knows, even it she be a little aristocratical. 
We must get her to change her dress altogether, and some of her 
ways too; which, in her circumstances, 1 call downright hanging 
ways; and the sooner she is rid of them, the better.” 

“ 1 see that you do not think us very strong on the merits, Timms, 
which is as much as admitting the guilt of our client. 1 was a good 
deal inclined to suspect the worst myself ; but two or three more in- 
- terviews, and what my nephew Jack W T ilmeter tells me, have pro- 
duced a change. I am now strongly inclined to believe her inno- 
cent. She has some great and secret cause of apprehension, I will 
allow; but 1 do not think these unfortunate Goodwins have any- 
thing to do with it.” 

“ Waal, one never knows The verdict, if 4 not guilty,’ will be 
just as good as it she was as innocent as a child a year old. I see 
bow the work is to be done. All the law, and the summing up, 
will fall to your share; while the out- door work will be mine. We 
May carry her through— though I’m of opinion that, if we do, it 
will be more by means of bottom than by means jot foot. There is 
one thing that is very essential, sir— the money must hold out.” 

“ Do you want a refresher so soon, Timms,? Jack tells me that 
she has given you two hundred and fifty dollars already!” 

“1 acknowledge it, sir; and a very respectable fee it is— you 
ought to have a thousand, squire.” 


90 


THE WAYS. OF THE HOUR. 

“ I have not received a cent, nor do 1 mean to touch any of her 
money. My feelings are in the case, and 1 am willing to work for 
nothing.*’ 

Timms gave his old master a quick but scrutinizing glance. 
Dunscomb was youthful, in all respects, for his time of life; and 
many a man has loved, and married, and become the parent of a 
flourishing family, who had seen all the days he had seen. That 
glance was to inquire if it were possible that the uncle and nephew 
were likely to be rivals, and to obtain as much knowledge as could 
be readily gleaned in a quick, jealous look. But the counselor was 
calm as usual, and no tinge of color, no sigh, no gentleness of ex- 
pression, betrayed the existence of the master passion. It was re 
ported among the bachelor’s intimates that formerly, when he was 
about five-and-twenty, he had had an affair of the heart, which had 
taken such deep hold that even the lady’s marriage with another 
man had not destroyed its impression. That marriage was said not 
to have been happy, and was succeeded by a second, that was still 
less so; though the parties were affluent, educated, and possessed 
all the means that are commonly supposed to produce felicity. A 
single child was the issue ot the first marriage, and its birth had 
shortly preceded the separation that followed. Three years later the 
father died, leaving the whole of a very ample fortune to this child, 
coupled with the strange request that Dunscomb, once the betrothed 
of her mother, should be the trustee and guardian of the daughter. 
This extraordinary demand had not been complied with, and Duns- 
comb had not seen any of the parties from the time he broke with 
his mistress. The heiress married young, died within the year, and 
left another heiress; but no further allusion to our counselor was 
made, in any of the later wills and settlements. Once, indeed, he 
had been professionally consulted concerning the devises in favor of 
the granddaughter — a certain Mildred Millington — who was a sec- 
ond-cousin to Michael of that name, and as rich as he was poor. 
For some years, a sort of vague expectation prevailed that these two 
young Millingtons might marry; but a feud existed in the family, 
and little or no intercourse was permitted. The early removal of the 
young lady to a distant school prevented such a result; and Mi- 
chael, in due time, fell within the influence ot Sarah Wilmeter’s gen- 
tleness, beauty, and affection. 

Timms came to the conclusion that his old master was not. in love. 

“ It is very convenient to be rich, squire,” this singular being re- 
marked ; ‘ ‘ and 1 dare say it may be very pleasant to practice for 
nothing, when a man has his pocket full of money. 1 am poor, and 
have particular satisfaction in a good warm fee. By the way, sir, 
my part ot the business requires plenty of money. 1 do not think 1 
can even commence operations with less than five hundred dollars. ’* 

Dunscomb leaned back, stretched forth an arm, drew his check- 
book from its niche, and filled a check for the sum just mentioned. 
This he quietly handed to Timms, without asking for any receipt; 
for, while he knew that liis old student and fellow-practiiioner was 
no more to be trusted iu matters of practice than was an eel in the 
hand, he knew that he was scrupulously honest in matters of ac- 
count. There was not a man in the state to whom Dunscomb would 
sooner confide the care of uncounted gold, or the administration of 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUB. 91 

an estate, or tlie payment of a legacy, than this very individual; 
who, he also well knew, would not scruple to set all the provisions 
of the law at naught, in order to obtain a- verdict, when his feelings 
were really in the case. 

“ There, Timms,” said the senior counsel, glancing at his dratt 
before he handed it to the other, in order to see that it was correct; 
“ there is what you ask for. Five hundred for expenses, and half as 
much as a fee.” 

“ Thank you, sir. 1 hope this is not gratuitous, as well as the 
services?” 

“ It is not. There is no want of funds, and 1 am put in posses- 
sion of sufficient money to carry us through with credit; but it is as 
a trustee, and not as a fee. This, indeed, is the most^extraordinary 
part of the whole affair; to find a delicate, educated, accomplished 
lady, with her pockets well lined, in such a situation 1” 

“ Why, squire,” said Timms, passing his hand down his chin, 
and trying to look simple and disinterested, “ l am afraid 'clients 
like ours are often flush. 1 have been employed about the Tombs a 
good deal in my time, and I have gin’rally found that the richest 
clients were the biggest rogues. ” 

Dunscomb gave his companion a long and contemplative look. 
He saw that Timms did not entertain quite as favorable an opinion 
of Mary Monson as he did himself, or rather that he was fast get- 
ting to entertain; for his owd distrust originally was scarcely less 
than that of this hackneyed dealer with human vices. A long, close 
and stringent examination of all of Timms’s facts succeeded— facts 
that had been gleaned by collecting statements on the spot. Then a 
consultation followed, from which it might be a little premature, 
just now, to raise the veil 


CHAPTER IX. 

Her speech is nothing, 

Yet the unshaped use of it doth move 
The hearers to collection. They aim at it, 

And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts. 

Hamlet. 

The reader is not to be surprised at the intimacy which existed 
between Thomas Dunscomb and the half-educated semi-rude being 
who was associated with him as counsel in the important cause that 
was now soon to be tried. Such intimacies are by no means un- 
common in the course of events; men often overlooking great dis- 
similarities in principles, as well as in personal qualities, in mana- 
ging their associations, so far as they are connected with the affairs 
of this world. The circumstance that Timms had studied in our 
counselor’s office would, as a matter of course, produce certain 
relations between them in after-life; but the student had made him- 
self useful to his former master on a great variety of occasions, and 
was frequently employed by him whenever there was a cause de* 
pending in the courts of Dukes, the county in which the unpol- 
ished, Balf-educated, but hard-working and successful county prac- 
titioner had established himself. It may be questioned if Dunscomb 
really knew all the agencies set in motion by his cbadjutorin difficult 


92 


THE WAYS /OF THE HOUR. 


cases; but, whether he did or not, it is quite certain that many of 
them were of a character not to see the light. It is very much the 
fashion of our good republic to turn up its nose at all other lands, 
a habit no doubt inherited from our great ancestors the English; 
and one of its standing themes of reproach are'the legal corruptions 
and abuses known to exist in France, Spain, Italy, etc. ; all over the 
world, in short, except among ourselves. So far as the judges are 
concerned, there is a surprising adherence to duty, when bribes 
alone are concerned, no class of men on earth being probably less 
bbnoxious to just imputations of this character than the innumer- 
able corps of judicial officers; unpaid, poor, hard-worked, and we 
might almost add unhonored, as they are. That cases in which 
bribes are taken do occur, we make no doubt; it would be assum- 
ing too much in favor of human nature to infer the contrary; but, 
under the system of publicity that prevails, it would not be easy for 
this crime to extend very far without its being exposed. It is greatly 
to the credit of the vast judicial corps of the States, that bribery is 
an offense which does not appear to be even suspected at all ; or, if 
there be exceptions to the rule, they exist in but few and isolated 
cases. Here, however, our eulogies on American justice must cease. 
All that Timms has intimated and Dunscomb has asserted concern- 
ing the juries is true; and the evil is one that each day increases. 
The tendency of everything belonging to the government is to 
throw power directly into the hands of the people, who, in nearly 
all cases, use it as men might be supposed to do who are perfectly 
irresponsible, have only a remote, and half the time an invisible in- 
terest in its exercise; who do not feel or understand the conse- 
quences of their own deeds, and have a pleasure in asserting a seem- 
ing independence, and of appearing to think and act for themselves. 
Under such a regime it is self-apparent that principles and law must 
suffer; and so the result proves daily, if not hourly. The institution 
of the jury, one of very questionable utility in its best aspects in a 
country of really popular institutions, becomes nearly intolerable, 
unless the courts exercise a strong and salutary influence on the dis- 
charge of its duties. This influence, unhappily, has been gradually 
lessening among us for the last haft century, until it has reached a 
point where nothing is more common than to find the judge charg- 
ing the law one way, and the jury determining it another. In most 
cases, it is true, there is a remedy for this abuse of power, but it is 
costly, and ever attended with that delay in hope “ which maketh 
the heart sick.’’ Any one, of even the dullest apprehension, must, 
on a little reflection, perceive that a condition of things in which the 
ends of justice are defeated, or so procrastinated as "to produce the 
results of defeat, is one of the least desirable of all those in which 
men can be placed under the social compact; to say nothing of its 
corrupting and demoralizing effects on the public mind. 

All this Dunscomb saw, more vividly, perhaps, than most others 
of the profession, for men gradually get to be so accustomed to 
abuses as not only to tolerate them, but to come to consider them as 
evils inseparable from human frailty. It was certain, however, that 
while our worthy counselor so tar submitted to the force of things 
as frequently to close his eyes to Timms ’s maneuvers, a weakness of 
which nearly every one is guilty who has much to do with the man- 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 93 

agement of men and things, he was never known to do aught him- 
self that was unworthy of his high standing and well -merited repu- 
tation at the bar. There is nothing unusual in this convenient com- 
promise between direct and indirect relations with that which is 
wrong. 

It had early been found necessary to employ local counsel in Mary 
Monson’s case, and Timms was recommended by his old master as 
one every way suited to the particular offices needed. Most of the 
duties to be performed were strictly legal ; though it is not to be con- 
cealed that some soon presented themselves that would not bear the 
light. John Wilmeter communicated to Timms the particular state 
of the testimony, as he and Michael Millington had been enabled to 
get at it ; and among other things he stated his conviction that the 
occupants of the farm nearest to the late dwelling of the Good- 
wins were likely to prove some of the most dangerous of the wit- 
nesses against their client. This family consisted of a sister-in-law, 
the Mrs. Burton already mentioned, three unmarried sisters, and a 
brother, who was the husband of the person first named. On th(s 
hint Timms immediately put himself in communication with these 
neighbors, concealing from them, as well as from all others but 
good Mrs. Gott, that he was retained in the case at all. 

Timms was soon struck with the hints and half-revealed state- 
ments of the persons of this household; more especially with those 
of the female portion oi it. The man appeared to him to have ob- 
served less than his wife and sisters; but even he had much to relate, 
though, as Timms fancied, more that he had gleaned from* those 
around him, than from his own observations. The sisters, however, 
had a good deal to say; while the wife, though silent and guarded, 
seemed to this observer, as well as to young Millington, to know the 
most. When pressed to tell all, Mrs. Burton looked melancholy and 
reluctant, frequently returning to the subject of her own accord 
when it had been casually dropped, but never speaking explicitly, 
though often invited so to do. It was not the cue of the counsel for 
the defense to drag out unfavorable evidence; and Timms employed 
certain confidential agents, whom he often used in the management 
of his causes, to sift this testimony as well as it could be done witbh 
out the constraining power of the law. The result was not very 
satisfactory, in any sense, more appearing to be suppressed than 
was related. It was feared that the legal officers of the State would 
meet with better success. 

The investigations of the junior counsel did not end here. He saw 
that the public sentiment was setting in a current so strongly against 
Mary Monson, that he soon determined to counteract it, as well as 
might be, by producing a reaction. This is a very common, not to 
say a very powerful agent, in the management of all interests that 
are subject to popular opinion, in a democracy. Even the applicant 
for public favor is none the worse for beginning his advances by “ a 
little aversion,” provided he can contrive to make the premeditated 
change in his favor take the aspect of a reaction. It may not be so 
easy to account for this caprice <?f the common mind, as it is certain 
that it exists. Perhaps we like to yield to a seeming generosity, 
have a pleasure in appearing to pardon, find a consolation for our 
own secret consciousness of errors, in thus extending favor to the 


94 THE WAYS . OF THE HOU£. 

errors of others, and have more satisfaction in preferring those who 
are fallible, than in exalting the truly upright and immaculate; if, 
indeed, any such there he. Lei the cause be what it may, we think 
the-facts to be beyond dispute; and so thought Timms also, for he 
no sooner resolved to counteract one public opinion by means of 
another, than he set about the task with coolness and intelligence- 
in short, with a mixture of all the good and bad qualities of the 
man. 

The first of his measures was to counteract, as much as he could, 
the effects of certain paragraphs that had appeared in some of the 
New York journals. A man of Timms’s native shrewdness had no 
difficulty in comprehending the more vulgar moral machinery of a 
daily press. ' Notwithstanding its “ we’s,” and its pretension to rep- 
resent public opinion, and to protect the common interests, he thor- 
oughly understood it was merely one mode of advancing the particu- 
lar views, sustaining the personal schemes, and not unfrequently of 
gratifying the low malignity of a single individual; the press in 
America differing from that of nearly all other countries in 1 he fact 
that it is not controlled by associations, and does not reflect the de- 
cisions of many minds, or contend for principles that, by their very 
character, have a tendency to elevate the thoughts. There are some 
immaterial exceptions as relates to the latter characteristic, perhaps, 
principally growing out of the great extra-constitutional question of 
slavery, that has quite unnecessarily been drawn into the discus- 
sions of the times through the excited warmth of zealots; but, as a 
rule, the exciting political questions that Elsewhere compose the 
great theme of the newspapers, enlarging their views, and elevating 
their articles, may be regarded as settled among ourselves. In the 
particular case with which Timms was now required to deal, there 
was neither favor nor malice to counteract. The injustice, and a 
mqst cruel injustice it was, was merely in catering to a morbid de- 
sire for the marvelous in the vulgar, which might thus be turned 
to profit. 

Among the reporters there exists the same diversity of qualities as 
among other men, beyond a question; but the tendency of the use 
of all power is to abuse; and Timm’s was perfectly aware that these 
men had far more pride in the influence they wielded, than con- 
science in its exercise. A ten- or a twenty-doilar note, judiciously 
applied, would „do a great deal with this “ Palladium of our Liber- 
ties,” there being at least a dozen of these important safeguards in- 
terested in the coming trial — our associate counsel very well knew; 
and Dunscomb suspected that some such application of the great 
persuader had been made, in consequence of one or two judicious 
and well-turned paragraphs that appeared soon after the consulta- 
tion. But Timms’s management of the press was mainly directed 
to that of the county newspapers. There were three of these; and 
as they had better characters than most of the Manhattanese jour- 
nals, so were they more confided in. It is true, that the Whig readers 
never heeded in the least anything that was said in *‘ The Dukes 
County Democrat;” but the friends of the last took their revenge in 
discrediting all that appeared in the columns of the ‘‘Biberry 
Whig.” In this respect, the two great parties of the country were 
on a par; each manifesting a faith, that, in a better cause, might 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


95 


suffice to move mountains; and, on the other hand, an unbelief that 
drove them into the dangerous folly of disregarding their foes. As 
Mary Monson had nothing to do with politics, it was not difficult to 
get suitable paragraphs inserted in the hostile columns, which was 
also done within eight-and-torty hours after the return of the junior 
counsel to his own abode. 

Timms, however, was far from trusting to the newspapers alone. 
He felt that it might be welt enough to set “ fire to fight fire;” but 
his main reliance was on the services that could be rendered by a 
timely and judicious use of “ the little member.” Talkers was what 
he wanted; and well did he know where to find them, and how to 
get them at work. A few he paid in a direct, business-like way; tak- 
ing no vouchers for the sums bestowed, the reader may be assured, 
but entering each item carefully in a little memorandum-book kept 
for his own private information. These strictly confidential agents 
went to work with experienced discretion but great industry, and 
soon had some ten or fifteen fluent female friends actively engaged 
in circulating “ They says,” in their respective neighborhoods. 

Timms had reflected a great deal on the character of the defense 
it might be most prudent to get uu and enlarge on. Insanity had 
been worn out by too much use of late; and he scarce gave that 
plea a second thought. This particular means of defense had been 
discussed between him and Dunscomb, it is true; but each of the 
counsel felt a strong repugnance against resorting to it; the one on 
account of his indisposition to rely on anything but the truth; the 
other, to use his own mode of expressing himself on the occasion in 
question, because he “ believed that jurors could no longer be hum- 
bugged with that plea. There have been all sorts of madmen and 
m ad- women— ” 

“ Gentlemen and lady murderers put in Dunscomb, drily. 

“ I ask pour pardon, squire; but, since you give me the use of 
my nose, I will offend as little as possible with the tongue— though, 
1 rather conclude ” — a form of expression much in favor with Timms 
— “ that should our verdict be * guilty,’ you will be disposed to al- 
low there- may be one lady criminal in the world.” 

“ She is a most extraordinary creature, ^Timrcs; bothers me more 
than any client 1 ever had!” 

“ Indeed! Waal, 1 had set her down as just the contrary — for to 
me she seems to be as unconcerned as if the wise four-and-twenty 
had not presented her to justice in the name of the people.” 

“ It is not in that sense that 1 am bothered — no client ever gave 
counsel les« trouble than Mary Monson in that respect. To me, 
Timms, she does not appear to have any concern in reference to 
the result.” 

“ Supreme innocence, or a well-practiced experience. I have de- 
fended many a person whom 1 knew to be guilty, and two or three 
whom I believed to be innocent; but never before had as cool a 
client as this!” 

And very true was this. Even the announcement of the present- 
ment by the grand jury appeared to give Mary Monson no great alarm . 
Perhaps she anticipated it from the first, and hud prepared herself 
for the event, by an exercise of a firmness little common to her sex 
until the mo'ments of extreme trial, when their courage would seem 


96 


THE WAY'S 1 ' OF THE HOUR. 

to rise with the occasion. On her companion, whom Timms had so 
elegantly styled her ‘ Lady Friend, ’ certainly as thoroughly vulgar 
an expression as was ever drawn into the service of the heroics in 
gentility, warm-hearted and faithful Marie Moulin, the intelligence 
produced far more effect. It will be remembered that Wilmeter 
overheard the single cry of “ Mademoiselle ” when this Swiss was 
first admitted to the jail'; after which an impenetrable veil closed 
around their proceedings. The utmost good feeling and confidence 
were apparent in the intercourse between the young mistress and her 
maid; if, indeed, Marie might thus be termed, after the manner in 
which she was' treated. So far from being kept at the distance 
wdiich it is usual to observe toward an attendant, the Swiss was ad- 
mitted to Mary Monson’s table; and to the eyes of indifferent ob- 
servers she might very well pass for what Timms had so elegantly 
called a “ lady friend.” But Jack "Wilmeter knew loo much of the 
world to be so easily misled. It is true, that when he paid his short 
visits to the jail, Marie Moulin sat sewing at tne prisoner’s side, and 
occasionally she even bummed low, national airs while he was pres- 
ent; but knowing the original condition of the maid -servant, our 
young man was not to be persuaded that his uncle’s client was her 
peer, any more than were the jurors who, agreeably to that pro- 
found mystification of the common law, are thus considered and 
termed. Had not Jack Wilmetei known the real position of Marie 
Moulin, her “ mademoiselle ” would have let him deeper into the 
secrets of the two than it is probable either ever imagined. This 
word, in common with those of “ monsieur ” and “ madame,” are 
used, by French servants, differently from what they are used in gen- 
eral society. Unaccompanied by the names, the' domestics of ~ 
France commonly and exclusively apply them to the heads of fami- 
lies, or those they more immediately serve. Thus, it was far more 
probable that Marie Moulin, meeting a mere general acquaintance 
in the prisoner, would have called her “Mademoiselle Marie,” or 
“ Mademoiselle Monson,” or whatever might be the name by which 
she had known the young lady, than by the general and stiff more 
respectful appellation of “mademoiselle.” On this peculiarity of 
deportment Jack Wilmeter speculated profoundly; fora young man 
who is just beginning to submit to the passion of love is very apt to 
fancy a thousand things that he would never dream of seeing in his 
cooler moments. Still,. John had fancied himself bound in the 
spells of another, until this extraordinary client of his uncle’s so 
unexpectedly crossed his path. Such is the human heart. 

Good and kind-hearted Mrs. Gott allowed the prisoner most of the 
privileges. that at all comported with her duty. Increased precau- 
tions were taken for the security of the accused, as soon as the pre- 
sentment of the grand jury was made, by a direct order from the 
court; but., these attended to, it was in the povrer of her "whom 
Timms might have called the “ lady sheriff ,” to grant a great 
many indulgences, which were quite* cheerfully accorded, and, to 
all appearances, as gratefully accepted. 

John Wilmeter was permitted to pay two regular visits at the 
grate each day, and as many more as his ingenuity could invent " 
plahsible excuses for making. On all occasions Mrs. Gott opened 
the outer door with the gieatest good will; and, like a Irue woman 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


97 


as she is, she had the tact to keep as far alooi from the barred win- 
dow where the parties met, as the dimensions of the outer room 
would allow. Marie Moulin was equally considerate, generally 
playing her needle at such times, in the depth of the cell, with twice 
the'industry manifested on other occasions. Nevertheless, nothing 
passed between the young people that called for this delicate reserve. 
The conversation, it is true, turned as little as possible on the strange 
and awkward predicament of one of the colloquists, or the employ- 
ment that kept the young 'man at Biberry. Nor did it turn at all 
on love. There is a premonitory state in these attacks of the heart, 
during which skillful observers may discover the symptoms of ap- 
proaching disease, but which do not yet betray the actual existence 
of the epidemic. On the part of Jack himself, it is true that these 
symptoms were getting to be not only somewhat apparent, but they 
were evidently fast becoming more and more distinct: while, on the 
part of the lady, any one disposed to be critical might have seen 
that her color deepened, and there were signs of daily increasing in- 
terest in them, as the hours for these interviews approached. She 
was interested in her young legal adviser ; and interest, with women, 
is the usual precursor of the master-passion. Woe betide the man 
who can not interest, but who only amuses! 

Although so little to the point w r as said in the short dialogues be- 
tween Wilmeter and Mary Monson, there wer6 dialogues held with 
the good Mrs. Gott, by each of the parties respectively, in which 
less reserve was observed; and the heart was permitted to have more 
influence over the movements of the tongue. The first of these con- 
versations that we deem it necessary to relate, that took place after 
the preseniment, was one that immediatly succeeded an interview 
at the barred window, and which occurred three days subsequently 
to the consultation in town, and two after Tirams’s machinery was 
actively at work in the county. 

“Well, how do you find her spirits to-day, Mr. Wilmington?” 
asked Mrs. Gott, kindly and catching the conventional sound of 
the young man’s name, from having heard it so often in the mouth 
of Michael Millington. “ It is an awful state for any human being 
to be in, and she a young, delicate woman; to be tried for murder, 
and tor setting fire to a house, and all so soon!” 

“ The most extraordinary part of this very extraordinary business. 
Mrs. Gott,” Jack replied, “ is the perfect indifference of Miss Mon- 
son to her fearful jeopardy! To me, she seems much more anxious 
to be closely immured in jail, than to escape from a trial that one 
would think, of itself, might prove more than so delicate a young 
lady could bear up against.” 

** Very true, Mr. Wilmington; and she never seems to think of it 
at all! You see wbat she has done, sir?” 

“ Done! Nothing in particular, I hope?” 

“ 1 don’t know what you call particular; but to me it does seem 
to be remarkably particular. Didn’t you hear a piano, and another 
musical instrument, as you approached the jail?” 

“ 1 did, certainly, and wondered who could produce such admira- 
ble music in Biberry.” 

“Biberry has a great many musical ladies, I can tell you, Mr. 
'Wilmington,” returned Mrs. Gott, a little coldly, though her good- 


98 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


nature instantly returned, and shone out in one of her most friendly 
smiles; “ and those, too, that have been to town and heard all the 
great performers from Europe, of whom there have been so many 
of late years. I have heard good judges say that Dukes County is 
not much behind the island of Manhattan, with tln*piano in particu- 
lar.” 

“ 1 remember when at Rome to have heard an Englishman say that 
some young ladies from Lincolnshire were astonishing the Romans, 
with their Italian accent, in singing Italian operas,” answered Jack,, 
smiling. “ There is no end, my dear -Mrs. Gott, to provincial per- 
fection in all parts of the world.” 

“ 1 believe 1 understand you, but 1 am not at all offended at your 
meaning. We are not very sensitive about the jails. One thing 1 
will admit, however; Mary Monson’s harp is the first, 1 rather thinks 
that was ever heard in Biberry. Gott tells me ” — this was the 
familiar manner in which the good woman spoke of the high sheriff 
of Dukes, as the journals affectedly call that functionary — “ that 
he once met some German girls strolling about the county, playing 
and singing for money, and who had just such an instrument, but 
not one-half as elegant; and it has brought to my mind a suspicion 
that Mary Monson may be one of these traveling musicians/’ 

“What? to stroll about the country, and play and sing in the 
streets of villages!” 

“No, not that; 1 see well enough she can not be of that sort.. 
But, there are all descriptions of musicians, as well as all descrip- 
tions of doctors and lawyers, Mr. Wilmington. Why may not 
Mary Monson be one of these foreigners who get so rich by singing 
and playing? She has just as much money as she w r ants, and! 
spends it freely too. This 1 know, from seeing the manner in which, 
she uses it. For my part,! wish she had less music and less money 
just now; for they are doing her no great good in Biberry!” 

“ Why not? Can any human being find fault with melody and a 
liberal spirit?” 

“Folks will find fault •with anything, Mr. Wilmington, when 
they have nothing better to do. You know how it is with our vil- 
lagers here, as well as I do. Most people think Mary Monson guilty, 
and a tew do not. Those that think her guilty say it is insolent in 
her to be singing and playing in the very jail in which she is con- 
fined; and talk loud against her for that very reason.” 

'“ Would they deprive her of a consolation as innocent as that she 
obtains from her harp and her piano, in addition to her other suffer- 
ings? Your Biberry folk must be particularly hard-hearted, Mrs. 
Gott.” 

“ Biberry people are like York people, and American people, and 
English people, and all other people, 1 fancy, if the truth was. 
known, Mr. Wilmington. Wbat they don’t like they disapprove 
of, that’s all. Now, was 1 one of them that believe Mary Monson 
did actually murder the Goodwins, and plunder their drawers, and 
set fire to their house, it would go ag’in my feelings too, to hear her 
music, well as she plays, and sweet as she draws out the sounds 
from those wires. Some of our folks take the introduction of the 
harp into the jail particularly hard!” 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. > 99 

“ Why that instrument more than another? It was the one on 
which David played.” 

“ They say it was David’s favorite, and ought only to be struck 
to religious words and sounds.” 

“ It is a little surpiising that your excessively conscientious peo- 
ple so often forget that charity is the chiefest of all the Christian 
graces.” 

“ They think that the love of God comes first, and that they ought 
never to lose sight of his honor and glory. But 1 agree with you, 
Mr. Wilmington; ‘feel for your fellow-creatures ’ is my rule; and 
I’m certain 1 am then feeling for my Maker. Yes; many of the 
neighbors insist that a harp is unsuited to a jail, and they tell me 
that tne instrument on which Mary Monson plays is areal antique.” 

“ Antique! What, a harp made in remote ages?” 

“ Ho, 1 don’t mean that exactly,” returned Mrs. Gott, coloring a 
little; “ bu't a harp made so much like those used by the Psalmist, 
that one could not tell them apart.” 

“ 1 dare say. David had many varieties of stringed instruments, 
from the lute up; but harps are very common, Mrs. Gott — so com- 
mon that we hear them now in the streets, and on board the steam- 
boats even. There is nothing new in them, even in this country.” 

“Yes, sir, in the streets and on board the boats; but the public 
will tolerate things done for them, that they won’t tolerate in indi- 
viduals. I suppose you know that, Mr. Wilmington?” 

“We soon learn as much in this country — but the jails are made 
for the public, and the harps ought to be privileged in them, as well 
as in other public places.” 

“ 1 don’t know how it is— I’m not very good at reasoning— but, 
somehow or another, the neighbors don’t like that Mary Monson 
should play on the harp or even on the piano, situated as she is. I 
do wish, Mr. Wilmington, you could give her a hint on the sub- 
ject.?” 

“ Shall 1 tell her that the music is unpleasant to youV' 

“ As far from that as possible! 1 delight in it; but. the neighbors 
do not. Then she never shows fierself at the grate, to folks outside, 
like all the other prisoners. The public wants to see and converse 
with her.” * 

“You surely could not expect a young and educated female to 
be making a spectacle of herself, for the gratification of the eyes of 
all the vulgar and curious in and about Biberry?” 

“ Rush— Mr. Wilmington, you are most too young to take care 
of such a cause. Squire Timms, now, is a man who understands 
Dukes County, and he would tell you it is not wise to talk of the 
vulgar hereabouts; at least not until the verdict is in. Besides, 
most people would think that folks have a right to look at a pris- 
oner in the common jail. 1 know the}' act as it they thought so.” 

“ It is hard enough to be accused and confined, without subject- 
ing the party to any additional degradation. Ho man has a right 
to ask to look at Miss Monson but those she sees fit to receive, and 
the officials of the law. It would be an outrage to tolerate mere idle 
(Curiosity.” 

“ Well, if you think so, Mr. Wilmington, do not let everybody 


100 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


know it. Several of the clergy have either been here, or have sent 
to offer their visits, if acceptable.’* 

“And what has been the answer?” demanded Jack, a little 
eagerly. 

“ Mary Monson has received all these offers as if she had been & 
queen — politely, but coldly; once or twice, or when the Methodist 
and the Baptist came, and they commonly come first, *1 thought she- 
3eemed hurt Her color went and came like lightniDg. How, slio 
was pale as death— next, as bright as a rose — what a color she has 
at times, Mr. Wilmington! Dukes is rather celebrated for rosy faces; 
but it would be hard to find her equal when she is not thinking.” 

“ Of what, my good Mrs. Gott?” 

“Why, most of the neighbors say, of the Goodwins. For my 
part, as I do not believe she ever hurt a hair of the head of the old 
man and old woman, 1 can imagine that she has disagreeable things 
to think of that are in nowise connected with them.' 7 

“ She certainly has disagreeable things to make her cheeks pale 
that are connected with that unfortunate couple. But; 1 ought to* 
know all. To what else do the neighbors object?” 

“To the foreign tongues — they think when a grand jury has 
found a bill, the accused ought to talk nothing but plain English, 
so that all near her can understand what she says.” 

' “ In a word, it is not thought sufficient to be accused of such a 
crime as murder, but ali other visitations must follow, to render the 
charge as horrible as may be!” 

“ That is not the way they look at it. The public fancies that 
in a public matter they might have a right to know all about a 
thing.” 

“ And when there is a failure in the proof, they imagine, in- 
vent, and assert.” 

“ ’Tis the ways of the land. I suppose all nations have their ways, 
and. follow them.” 

“ One thing surprises me a little in this matter,” Jack rejoined, 

* after musing a moment; “ it is this. In most cases in which women 
have any connection with the law, the leaning in this country, and 
more particularly of late, has been in their favor.” 

“ Well,” Mrs. Gott quietly but quickly interrupted,* 4 and ought 
it not to be so?” 

“ it ought not, unless the merits are with them. Justice is in- 
tended to do that which is equitable; and it is not fair to assume 
that women are always right, and men always wrong. I know 
my uncle thinks that not only the decisions of late years, but the 
laws, have lost sight of the wisdom of the past, and are gradually- 
placing the women above the men, making her instead of him the 
head of the family.” 

l '* Well, Mr. Wilmington, and isn’t that, quite right?” demanded 
Mrs. Gott, with a good-natured nod. 

“My uncle thinks it* very wrong, and that by a mistaken gal- 
lantry the peace of families is undermined, and their discipline de- 
stroyed ; as, in punishment, by a false philanthropy, rogues are pet- 
ted at the expense of honest folk. Such are the opinions of Mr. 
Thomas Dunscomb, at least.” 

“ Ay, Mr. Thomas Dunscomb is an old bachelor; and bachelors* 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. ' 101 

wives, and bachelors' children, as we well, know, are always ad- 
mirably managed. It is a pity they aie not more numerous,” re- 
torted the indomitably good-humored wife of the sheriff. “But, 
you see that, in this case of Mary Monson, the feeling is against,, 
rather than in favor of. a woman. That may be owing to the fact 
that one of the persons murdered was a lady also.” 

“ Doctor McBrain says that both were females — or ladv-murdered 
— as 1 suppose we must call them; as doubtless you nave heard, 
Mrs. Gott. Perhaps he is believed, and the fact may make doubly 
against the accused.” 

“ He is not believed. Everybody hereabouts known that one of 
the skeletons was that of Peter Goodwin. They say that the dis- 
trict attorney means to show that , beyond all dispute. They tell 
me that it is a law, in a case of this sort, first to show there has been 
a murder; second, to show who did it.” 

“This is something like the course of proceeding, 1 believe; 
though 1 never sat on a trial for this offense. It is of no great 
moment what the district attorney does, so that he do not prove that 
Miss Monson is guilty; and this, my kind-hearted Mrs. Gott, you 
and 1 do not believe he . can do.” 

“ In that we are agreed, sir. I no more think that Mary Monson 
did these things, than i think 1 did them myself.” 

Jack expressed his thanks in a most grateful look, and there the 
interview terminated. 


CHAPTER X. 

In peace, Love tunes the shepherd’s reed; 

In war he mounts the warrior’s stee<J; 

In halls, in gay attire is seen; 

In hamlets, dances on the green. 

Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, 

And men below, and saints above ; 

For love is heaven, and heaven is love 

Scott. 

“ It is the ways of the land,”, said good Mrs. Gott, in one of her 
remarks in the conversation just related. Other usages prevail, in 
connection with other interests; and the time- is come when we must 
refer to one of them. In a word, Dr. McBrain and Mrs. Updkye 
were about to be united in the bands of matrimony. As yet we 
have said very little of the intended bride; but the incidents of our 
tale render it now necessary to bring her more prominently on the 
stage, and to give some account of herself and family. 

Anna Wade was the only child of very respectable and somewhat 
affluent parents. At nineteen she .married a lawyer of suitable 
years, and became Mrs. Updyke. This union lasted but eight years, 
when the wife was left a widow with two children; a son and a 
daughter. In the course of time these children grew up, the mother 
devoting herself to their care, education and well-being. In all this 
there was nothing remarkable, widowed mothers doing as much 
daily, with a self-devotion that allies them to the angels. Frank 
Updyke, the son, had finished his education, and was daily expected 
to arrive from a tour of three years in Europe. Anna, her mother’s, 
namesake, was at the sweet age of nineteen, and the very coun- 


102 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUK. 


terpart of what the elder Anna had been at the same period in life. 
The intended bride was far from being unattractive, though fully 
five-and- forty. In the eyes of Dr. McBrain, she was even charming; 
although she did not exactly answer l hose celebrated conditions of 
female influence that have been handed down to us in the familiar 
toast of a voluptuous English nrince. Though forty, Mrs. Updyke 
was neither ‘ fat ’ nor ‘ fair;’ being a brunette of a well-preserved 
and still agreeable person. ^ 

It was perhaps a little singular, after having escaped the tempta- 
tions of a widowhood of twenty years, that this lady should think 
of marrying at a time of life when most females abandon the ex- 
pectation of changing their condition. But Mrs.Updyke was a per- 
son of a very warm heart; and she foresaw the day when she was to 
be left alone in the world. Her son was much inclined to be a rover 
and, in his letters, he talked of still longer journeys, and of more pro- 
tracted absences from home. He inherited an independency from 
his father, and had now been his own master for several years. 
Anna was much courted by the circle to whiqh she belonged; and 
young, affluent, pretty to the very verge of beauty, gentle, quiet, 
and singularly warm-hearted, it was scarcely within the bounds of 
possibility that she could escape an early marriage in a state of 
society like that of Manhattan. These were the reasons Mrs. Up- 
dyke gave to her female confidantes, when she deemed it well to ex- 
plain the motives of her present purpose. Without intending to 
deceive, there was not a word of truth in these explanations.'" In 
point of fact, Mrs. Updyke, well as she had loved the husband of 
her youth, preserved les beaux restes of a very warm and affection- 
ate heart; and McBrain, a well-preserved, good-looking man, about 
a dozen years older* than herself, had found the means to awaken 
its sympathies to such a degree, as once more to place the comely 
widow completely within the category of Cupid. It is very possible 
lor a woman of forty to love, and to love with all her heart ; though 
the world seldom takes as much interest in her weakness, if weak- 
ness it is, as in those of younger and fairer subjects of the passion. 
To own the truth, Mr$. Updyke was profoundly in love, while her 
betrothed met her inclination with an answering sympathy that, to 
say the least, was fully equal to any tender sentiment he had suc- 
ceeded in awakening,. 

All this was to Tom Dunscomb what he called “ nuts.” Three 
times had he seen his old friend in this pleasant state of feeling, and 
three times was he chosen to be an attendant at the altar; once in 
the recognized character of a groomsman, and on the other two oc- 
casions in that of a chosen friend. Whether the lawyer had him- 
■self completely escaped the darts of the little god, no one could say, 
so completely had he succeeded in veiling this portion of his life 
from observation; but, whether he had or not, he made those who 
did submit to the passion the theme of his untiring merriment. 

Children usually regard these lardy inclinations of their parents 
with surprise, if not with downright distaste. Some little surprise 
Ihe pretty Anna Updyke may have felt, when she was told by a 
venerable great-aunt that her mother was about to be married; but 
cf distaste there was none. She had a strong regard for her new 
:step-father, that was to be, and thought it the most natural thing 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


103 ? 


in the world to love. Sooth to say, Anna Updyke had not been 
out two years — the American girls are brought out so youns:!— with- 
out having sundry suitors. Manhattan is the easiest place in the* 
world lor a pretty girl, with a good fortune, to get offers. Pretty 
girls with good fortunes are usually in request everywhere; but it* 
requires the precise state of society that exists in the “ Great Com- 
mercial Emporium,” to give a young woman the highest chance in 
the old loltery. There where one half of tne world came frojn other 
worlds some half a dozen years since; where a good old Manhattan 
name is regarded as upstart among a crowd that scarcely knows* 
whence it was itself derived, and whither it is destined, and where 
few have any real position in society, and fewer still know what tbe 
true meaning of the term is, money and beauty are the constant ob- 
jects of pursuit. Anna Updyke formed no exception. "She had 
declined, in the gentlest manner possible, no less than six direct 
offers, coming from those who were determined to lose nothing by 
diffidence; had thrown cold water on more than twice that number 
of little flames that were just beginning to burn; and had thrown 
‘into the fire some fifteen or sixteen anonymous effusions, in prose 
and verse, that came from adventurers who could admire from a 
distance, at the opera and in the streets, but who had no present 
means of getting any nearer than these indirect attempts at com- 
munication. We say “thrown into the fire;” for Anna was too 
prudent, and had too much self-respect, to retain such documents, 
coming, as they did, from so many “Little Unknowns.” The 
anonymous effusions were consequently burnt— with one exception. 
The exception was in the case of a sonnet, in which her hair— and. 
very beautiful it is— was the theme. From some of the little free- 
masonry of the intercourse of the sexes, Anna fancied these lines 
had bpen written by Jack Wilmeter, one of the most constant of her 
visitors, as well as one of her admitted favorites. Between Jack 
an'd Anna there had been divers passages of gallantry, which had 
been very kindly viewed by McBrain and the* mother. The parties 
themselves did not understand their own feelings; for matters had 
not gone far, when Mary Monson so strangely appeared on the stage, 
and drew Jack oft, on the trail of wonder and mystery, if not on 
that of real passion. As Sarah Wilmeter was the most intimate friend, 
of Anna Updyke, it is not extraordinary that this singular fancy 
of the brother’s should be the subject of conversation between the 
two young women, each of whom probably felt more interest in his 
movements than any other persons on earth. The dialogue we are 
about to relate took place in Anna’s own room, the morning of the 
day which preceded that of the wedding, and followed naturally 
enough, as the sequence of certain remarks which had been made 
on the approaching event. 

“If my mother were living, and must be married,” said Sarah 
Wilmeter, “ 1 should be very well content to have such a man as 
Doctor McBrain for a step-father. I have known him all my life, 
and he is, and ever has been, so intimate with Uncle Tom, that 1 
almost think him a near relation.” 

“ And 1 have known him as long as lean remember,” Anna 
steadily rejoined, “ and have not only a great respect, but a warm 
regard for him. Should 1 ever marry myself, 1 do not believe 1 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUE. 


104 

shall have one-half the attachment for my father-in-law as 1 am 
sure 1 shall feel for my step-father. ” 

“ How do you know there will be any father-in-law in the case? 
1 am sure John has no parent.” 

“ John!” returned Anna, faintly — “ What is John to me?” 

“ Thank you, my dear — he is something, at least to me.” 

“ To be sure — a brother naturally is— but Jack is no brother of 
mine, you will please to remember.” 

Sarah cast a quick, inquiring look at her friend; but the eyes of 
Anna were thrown downward on the carpet, while the bloom on 
her cheeks spread to her temples. Her friend saw that, in truth, 
Jack was no brother of hers. 

“ What 1 mean is this ’’—continued Sarah, following a thread 
that ran through her own mind, rather than anything that had been 
already expressed—” Jack is making himself a very silly fellow just 
now.” 

Anna now raised her eyes; her lip quivered a little, and the bloom 
deserted even her cheek. Still, she made no .reply. Women can 
listen acutely at such moments; but it commonly exceeds their pow- 
ers to speak. The friends understood each other, as Sar*h well 
knew, and she continued her remarks precisely as if the other had 
answered them. 

” Michael Millington brings strange accounts of Jack’s behavior 
at Biberry! He says that he seems to do nothing, think of nothing, 
talk of nothing, but of the hardship of this Mary Monson’s case.” 

” I’m sure it is cruel enough to awaken the pity of a rock,” said 
Anna Updyke, in a low tone; ” a woman, and she a lady, accused 
of such terrible crimes — murder and arson!” 

“ What is arson, child? — and how do you know anything about 
it?” 

Again Anna colored, her feelings being all sensitiveness on this 
subject; which had caused her tar more pain than she had experi- 
enced from any other event in her brief life. It was, however, nec- 
essary to answer. 

“Arson is setting fire to an inhabited house,” she said, after a 
moment’s reflection ; ” and 1 know it from having been told its sig- 
nification by Mr. Dunscomb.” 

“Did Uncle Tom say anything of this Mary Monson, and of 
Jack’s singular behavior?” 

“He spoke of his client as a very extraordinary person, and of 
her accomplishments, and readiness, and beauty. Altogether, he 
does not seem to know what to make of her.” 

'* And what did he say about Jack? You deed have no reserve 
with me, Anna; I am his sister.” 

“ I know that very well, dear Sarah — but Jack’s name was not 
mentioned, 1 believe— certainly not at the particular time, and in the 
conversation to which 1 now refer.” 

“ But at some other time, my dear, and in some other conversa- 
tion.” 

” He did once say something about your brother’s being very at- 
tentive to the interests ot the person he calls his Dukes County client 
—nothing more, 1 do assure you. It is the duty of young lawyers to 
3be very attentive to the interests of their clients, I should think.” 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


105 > 

“ Assuredly — and that most especiallv when the client is a young 
lady with a pocket full of money. But Jack is above want, and 
can allord to act right at all times and on all occasions. I wish lie 
had never seen this strange creature.” 

Anna Updyke sat silent for some little time, playing with the hem 
of her pocket-handkerchief. Then she said timidly, speaking as 
if she wished an answer, even while she dreaded it — 

“ Does not Marie Moulin know something about her?” 

‘ ‘ A great deal, if she would only tell it. But Marie, too, has gone 
over to the enemy, since she has seen this siren. Nol; a word can 1 
get out of her, though I have written three letters, beyond the fact 
that she knows Mademoiselle , and that she can not believe her 
guilty.” 

“ The last, surely, is very important. If really innocent, how 
hard has been the treatment she has received ! It is not surprising 
that your brother feels so deep an interest in her. He ’is very warm- 
hearted and generous, Sarah; and it is just like him to devote liis 
time and talents to the service of the oppressed.” 

It was Sarah’s turn to be silent and thoughtful. She made no 
answer, for she well understood that an impulse very different from 
that mentioned by her friend was, just then, influencing her broth- 
er’s conduct. 

We have related this conversation as the briefest mode of making 
the reader acquainted with the true state of things in and about the 
neat dwelling of Mrs. Updyke in Eighth Street. Much, however, 
remains to be told; as the morning of the very day which succeeded 
that on which the foregoing dialogue was held, was the one named 
for the wedding of the mistress of the house. 

At the very early hour of six. the party met at the church door, 
one of the most gothic structures in the new quarter of the town; 
and five minutes sufficed to make the two one. Anna sobbed as she 
saw her mother passing away from her, as it then appeared to her; 
and the bride herself was a little overcome. As for McBrain, as his 
friend Dunscomb expressed it, in a description given to a brother 
bachelor, who met him at dinner: 

“ He stood the fire like a veteran! You’re not going to frighten 
a fellow who has held forth the ring three times. You will remem- 
ber that Ned has previously killed two wives, besides all the other 
folk he has slain; and 1 make no doubt the fellow’s confidence was 
a good deal increased by the knowledge he possesses that none of us 
are immortal — as husbands and wives, at least.” 

But Tom Dunscomb’s pleasantries had no influence on his friend’s 
happiness. Odd as it may appear to some, this connection was one 
of a warm and very sincere attachment. Neither of the parties had 
reached the period of life when nature begins to yield to the pressure 
of time, and there was the reasonable prospect before them of their 
contributing largely to each other’s future happiness. The bride 
was dressed with great simplicity, but with a proper care; and she 
really justified the passion that McBrain insisted, in his conversation 
with Dunscomb, that he felt for her. Youthful, for her time of 
life, modest in demeanor and aspect, still attractive in person, the 
* Widow Updyke ’ became Mrs. McBrain, with as charming an air 
of womanly feeling as might have been exhibited by one of less than 


100 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


half her age. Covered with blushes, she was handed by the bride- 
groom into his own carriage, which stood at the churcli-door, and 
the two proceeded to Timbully. 

As for Anna Updyke, she went to pass a week in the country 
with Sarah Dunscomb; even a daughter being a little de trop, \ na 
honey-moon. Rattletrap was the singular name Tom Dunscomb 
had given to his country-house. It was a small villa-like residence, 
on the banks of the Hudson, and within the island of Manhattan. 
Concealed in a wood, it was a famous place for a bachelor to hide 
his oddities in. Here Dunscomb concentrated all his out-of-the- 
way purchases, including plows that were never used, all sorts of 
farming utensils that were condemned to the same idleness, and 
such contrivances in the arts of fishing and shooting as struck his 
fancy; though the lawyer never handled a rod or leveled a fowling- 
piece. But Tom Dunscomb, though he professed to despise love, 
had fancies of his own. It gave him a certain degree of pleasure to 
seem to have these several tastes; and he threw away a good deal of 
money in purchasing these characteristic ornaments for Rattletrap. 
When Jack Wilmeter ventured, one day, to ask his uncle what 
pleasure he could find in collecting so many costly and perfectly use- 
less articles, implements that had not the smallest apparent connec- 
tion with his ordinary pursuits and profession, he got the following 
answer: 

“You are wrong. Jack, in supposing that, these traps are use- 
less. A lawyer has occasion for a vast deal of knowledge that he 
will never get out of his books. One should have the elements of 
all the sciences, and of most of the arts, in his mind, ‘to make a 
thoroughly good advocate; for their application will become nec- 
essary on a thousand occasions, when Blackstone and Kent can be 
of no service. Ho, no; 1 prize my profession highly, and look upon 
Rattletrap as my Inn of Court.” 

Jack Wilmeter had come over from Biberry to attend the wed- 
ding, and had now accompanied the party into the country, as it 
was called: though the place of Dunscomb was so near town that 
it was not difficult, when the wind was at the southward, to hear 
the fire-bell on the City Hall. The meeting between John Wilmeter 
and Anna Updyke had been fortunately" a little relieved by the 
peculiar circumstances in which the latter was placed. The 
feeling she betrayed, the pallor of her cheek, and the nervous- 
ness of her deportment, might all, naturally enough, be im- 
puted to the emotions of a daughter, who saw her own mother 
standing at the altar, by the side of one who was not her natural 
father. Let this be as it might, Anna had the advantage of the in- 
ferences which those around her made on these facts. The young 
people met first in the church, where there was no opportunity for any 
exchange of language or looks. Sarah took her friend away with 
her alone, on the road to Rattletrap, immediately after the cere- 
mony, in order to allow Anna’s spirits and manner to become com- 
posed, without being subjected to unpleasant observation. Duns- 
comb and his nephew drpve out in a light vehicle of the latter’s; 
and Michael Millington appeared later at the villa bringing with 
him to dinner, Timms, who came on business connected with the 
•approaching trial. 


THE WA'XS OF THE HOUR. 10T 

There never had been any love-making, in the direct meaning of 
the term, between John Wi’lmeter and Anna Updyke. They had 
.known each other so long and so intimately, that both regarded 
the feeling of kindness that each knew subsisted, as a mere fraternal 
sort of affection. “ Jack is Salad’s brother,” thought Anna, when 
slie permitted herself to reason on the subject of all; “ and it is nat- 
ural that 1 should have more friendship for him than for any other 
young man.” “Anna is Sarah’s most intimate friend,” thought 
Jack, “and that is the long and short of my attachment for her. 
Take away Sarah, and Anna would be nothing to me; though she 
is so pretty, and clever, and gentle, and lady like. 1 must like those 
Anna likes, or it might make us both unhappy.” This was the 
reasoning of nineteen, and when Anna Updyke was just budding 
into young Womanhood; at a later day, habit had got to be so much 
in the ascendant, that neither of the young people thought much on 
the subject at all. T^e preference was strong in each — so strong, 
indeed, as to hover over the confines of passion, and quite near to 
its vortex; though the long-accustomed feeling prevented either 
from entering into its analysis. The attachments that grow up with 
our daily associations, and get to be so interwoven with our most 
familiar thoughts, seldom carry away those who submit to them, in 
the whirlwind of passion; which are much more apt to attend sud- 
den and impulsive love. Cases do certainly occur in which the 
parties have long known each other, and have lived on for years in 
a dull appreciation of mutual merit— sometimes with prejudices and 
alienation active between them; when suddenly all is changed, and 
the scene that was lately so tranquil and tame becomes tumultuous 
and glowing, and life assumes a new charm, as the profound emo- 
tions of passion chase away its dullness; substituting hope, and 
fears, and lively wishes, and soul-felt impressions in its stead. This 
is not usual in the course of the most wayward of all our impulses; 
but it does occasionally happen, brightening existence with a glow 
that might well be termed divine, were the colors bestowed derived 
from a love of the Creator, in lieu of that of one of his creatures. 
In tbese sudden awakenings of dormant feelings, some chord of 
mutual sympathy, some deep-rooted affinity is aroused, carrying 
away their possessors in a torrent of the feelings. Occasionally, 
wherever the affinity is active, the impulse natural and strongly 
sympathetic, these sudden and seemingly wayward attachments are 
the most indelible, coloring the whole of the remainder of life; but 
oftener do they take the character of mere impulse, rather than that 
of deeper sentiment, and disappear, as they were first seen, in some 
sudden glow of the horizon of the affections. 

In this brief analysis of some of the workings of the heart, we 
may find a clew to the actual frame of mind in which John Wil- 
meter returned from Biberry, where he had now been, like a sen- 
tinel on post, for several weeks, in vigilant watchfulness over the 
interests of Mary Monson. During all that time, however, he had 
not once been admitted within the legal limits of the prison; holding 
his brief, but rather numerous conferences with his client, at the 
little grate in the massive door that separated the jail from the dwell- 
ing of the sheriff. Kind-hearted Mrs. Gott would have admitted 
him to the gallery, whenever he chose to ask that favor; but- this 


108 THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 

act of courtesy had been forbidden by Mary Monson herself. 
Timms she did receive, and she conferred with him in private on 
more than one occasion, manifesting great earnestness in the con- 
sultations that preceded the approaching trial. But John Wilmeter 
she would receive only at the grate, like a nun in a well-regulated 
convent. Even this coyness contributed to feed the fire that had 
been so suddenly lighted in the young man’s heart, on which the 
strangeness of the prisoner’s situation, her personal attractions, her 
manners, and all the other known peculiarities of person, history, 
education and deportment, had united to produce a most lively im- 
pression, however fleeting it was to prove in the end. 

Had there been any direct communications on the subject of the 
attachment that had so long, so slowly, but so surely been taking 
root in the hearts of John and Anna, any reciprocity jn open confi- 
dence, this unlooked-for impulse in a new direction could not have 
overtaken the young man. He did not know how profound was the 
interest that Anna took iu him; nor, for that matter, was she aware 
of it herself, until Michael Millington brought the unpleasant tidings 
of the manner in which his friend seemed to be entranced with his 
uncle’s client at Biberry. Then, indeed, Anna was made to feel 
that surest attendant of the liveliest love, a pang of jealousy; and 
for the first time in her young and innocent life, she became aware . 
of the real nature of her sentiments in behalf of John Wilmeter. 
On the other hand, drawn aside from the ordinary course of his 
affections by sudden, impulsive, and exciting novelties, John was 
fast submitting to the influence of the charms of the fair stranger, 
as has been more than once intimated in our opening pages, as the 
newly-fallen snow melts under the rays of a noonday sun. 

Such, then, was the state of matters in this little circle, when the 
wedding took place, and John Wilmeter joined the family party. 
Although Dunscomb did all he could to make the dinner gay, Rat- 
tletrap had seldom entertained a more silent company than that 
which sat down at its little round table on this occasion. John 
thought of Biberry and Mary Monson; Sarah’s imagination was 
quite busy in wondering why Michael Millington stayed away so 
long; and Anna was on the point of bursting into tears half a dozen 
times, under the depression produced by the joint events of her 
I mother’s piarriage, and John Wilmeter’s obvious change of deport- 
ment toward her. 

“ What the deuce has kept Michael Millington and that fellow 
Timms from joining us at dinner,’’ said the master of the house, as 
the fruit was placed upon the table; and, closing one eye, he looked 
,witk the other through the ruby rays of a glass of well-cooled Madeira 
—his favorite wine. “ Both ‘promised to De punctual; yet here are 
they both sadly out of time. They knew the dinner was to come 
off at four.” 

“ As is one, so are both,” answered Jonn. “ You will remember 
they were to come together?” 

“True — and Millington is rather a punctual man— especially in 
visiting at Rattletrap ” — here Sarah blushed a little; but the engage- 
ment in her case being announced, there was no occasion for any 
particular confusion. “We shall have to take Michael with us 


THE' WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


109 

Into Dukes next week. Miss Wilmeter; the case being too grave to 
neglect bringing up all oui forces. ' ’ 

“Is Jack, too, to take a partin the trial, Uncle Tom?” demanded 
tthe niece, with a little interest in the answer. 

“ Jack, too— everybody, in short. When the life of a fine young 
woman is concerned, it behooves her counsel to be active and dili- 
gent. I have never before had a cause into which my feelings have 
so completely entered — no, never.” 

“ Do not counsel always enter, heart and hand, into their clients’ 
interests, and make themselves, as it might be, as you gentlemen of 
the bar sometimes term these things, a ‘ part and parcel ’ of their 
concerns?” 

This question was put by Sarah, but it caused Anna to raise her 
eyes from the fruit she was pretending to eat, and to listen intently 
to the reply Perhaps she fancied that the answer might explain 
the absorbed manner in which John had engaged in the service of 
the accused. 

“ As far from it as possible, in many cases,” returned the uncle; 
“ though there certainly are others in which one engages with all 
his feelings. But every day lessens my interest in the law, and all 
that belongs to it.” 

“Why should that be so, sir? 1 have heard you called a devotee 
of the profession.” 

“ That’s because 1 have no wife. Let a man live a bachelor, and 
ten to one he gets some nickname or other. On the other hand, let 
him marry two or three times, like Ned McBrain — beg your pardon, 
Nanny, for speaking disrespectfully of your papa— but let a fellow 
just get his third wife, and they tack * family * to his appellation at 
once. He’s an excellent family la, wyer, or a capital family physician, 
or a supremely pious— no, I don’t know that they’ve got so far as 
the parsons, for they are all family fellows.” 

“ You have a spite against matrimony. Uncle Tom,” 

“ Well, if 1 have, it stops with me, as a family complaint. You 
are free from it, my dear; and I’m half inclined to think Jack will 
marry before he is a year older. But, here are the tardies at last.” 

Although the uncle made no allusion to the person his nephew 
was to marry, everybody but himself thought of Mary Monson at 
once. Anna turned pale as death; Sarah looked thoughtful, and 
even sad; and John became as red as scarlet! But the entrance of 
Michael Millington and Timms caused the conversation to turn on 
another subject, as a matter of course. 

“We expected you to dinner, gentlemen,” Dunscomb dryly re- 
marked, as he pushed the bottle to his guests. 

“ Business before eating is my maxim, Squire Dunscomb,” 
Timms replied. “ Mr. Millington and 1 have been very busy in the 
office, from the moment Doctor McBrain and his lady—” 

“ Wife— say ‘ wife,’ Timms, [if you please. Or, * Mrs. McBrain,’ 
if you like that better. ” 

“ Well, sir, I used the word I did out of compliment to the other 
ladies present. They love to be honored and signalized in our lan- 
guage, when we speak of them, sir, I believe. .’ 

“Poh! poh! Timms; take my advice, and let all these small mat- 
ters alone. It takes a life to master them, and one must begin from 


• 110 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


the cradle. When all is ended, they are scarce worth the trouble 
they give. _ Speak good, plain, direct, and manly English, 1 have 
always told you, and you’ll get along well enough; but make no 
attempts to be fine. ‘ Doctor McBrain and lady * is next thing ‘ to 
going through Hurlgate.’ or meeting a ‘ lady friend.’ You’ll never 
get the right sort of a wife, until you drop all such absurdities.” 

“ I’ll tell, you how it is, squire: so far as law goes, or even morals, 
and 1 don’t know but 1 may say general government politics, 1 look 
upon you as the best adviser 1 can consult. But,, when it comes to 
matrimony, ] can’t see how you should know any more about it 
than 1 do myself. 1 do intend to get married one of these days, 
which is more, I fancy, than you ever had in view.” 

‘‘No; my great concern has been to escape matrimony; but a 
mgn may get a very tolerable notion of the sex while maneuvering 
among them, with that intention. 1 am not certain that he who has 
had two or three handsomely managed escapes, doesn’t learn as 
much as he who has had two or three wives- -1 mean of useful in- 
formation. What do you think of all this, Millington?” 

“ That 1 wish for no escapes, when my choice has been free and 
fortunate.” 

“ And you, Jack?” 

“ Sir!” answered the nephew, starting, as if aroused from a brown 
study. “ Did you speak to me. Uncle Tom?” 

” He’ll not be of much use to us next week, Timms,” said the 
counselor, coolly, filling his own and his neighbor’s glass as he 
spoke, with iced Madeira—” These capital cases demand the utmost 
vigilance; more especially when popular prejudice sets in against 
them.” 

” Should the jury find Mary Monson to be guilty, what would be 
the sentence of the court?” demanded Sarah, smiling, even while 
she seemed much interested — ” 1 believe that is right, Mike — the 
cburt ‘ sentences,’ and the jury ‘ convicts.’ If there be any mistake, 
you must answer for it.”. 

“ 1 am afraid to speak of laws, or constitutions, in the presence 
of your uncle, since the rebuke Jack and 1 got in that affair of the 
toast,” returned Sarah’s betrothed, arching his eyebrows. 

” By the way, Jack, did that dinner ever come off?” demanded 
the uncle, suddenly; ” I looked for your toasts in the journals, but 
do not remember ever to have seen them.” 

“ You could not have seen any of mine, sir; for I Went to Biberry 
that very morning, and only left there last evening ’’—Anna’s coun- 
tenance resembled a lily, just as it begins to droop — “ 1 believe, 
however, the whole affair fell through, as no one seems to know, 
just now, who are and who are not the friends of liberty. It is the 
people to-day; the Pope. next day; some prince to morrow; and, by 
the end of the week, we may have a Masaniello or a Robespierre 
uppermost. The times seem sadly out of joint just now, and the 
world is fast getting to be upside-down.” 

” It’s all owing to this infernal Code, Timms, which is enough to 
revolutionize human nature itself!” cried Dunscomb, with an^ ani- 
mation that produced a laugh in the young folk (Anna excepted), 
and a simper in the person addressed. ” Ever since this thing has 
come into operation among us, I never know when a case is to be 


THE , WAYS OF THE HOUlt. Ill 

ihe-ard, the decision had, or the principles that are to come upper- 
most. Well, we must try and get some good out ol it, it we can, in 
this capital case.” 

“ Which is drawing very near, squire; and I have some facts to 
-communicate in that affair which it may be well to compare with 
the law, without much more delay.” 

“ Let us finish this bottle— if the boys help us, it will not be much 
more thaD a glass apiece.” 

“ 1 don’t think the squire will ever be wphelfl at the polls by the 
temperance people,” said Timms, filling his glass* to the brim; for, 
to own the truth, it was seldom that he got such wine. 

“ As you are expecting to be held up by them, my fine fellow. 
I’ve heard of your management. Master Timms, and am told you 
aspire as high as the .State Senate. Well; there is room for better, 
but much worse men have been sent there. Now, let us go to what 
I call the * Rattletrap office.’ ” 


. CHAPTER XI. 

The strawberry grows underneath the nettle, 

And wholesome berries thrive and ripen best, 

Neighbor’d by fruit of baser quality. 

King Henry V. 

There stood a very pretty pavilion in one of the groves of Rat- 
tletrap, overhanging the water, with the rock of the river-shore for 
its foundation. It had two small apartments, in bne of which Duns- 
comb had caused a book- case, a table, a rocking-chair and a lounge 
to be placed. The other was furnished more like an ordinary sum- 
mer-house, and was at all times accessible to the inmates ot the fam- 
ily. The sanctum, or office, was kept locked; and here its owner 
often brought his papers, and passed whole days, during the warm 
months, when it is the usage to be out of town, in preparing his 
cases. To this spot, then, the counselor now held his way, attended 
by Timms, having ordered a servant to bring a light and some ci- 
gars; smoking being one of the regular occupations of the office. In 
a few minutes, each of the two men of the law had a cigar in his 
mouth, and was seated at a little window that commanded a fine 
view of the Hudson, its fleet of sloops, steamers, tow-boats and coll- 
iers, and its high, rocky western shore, which has obtained the not 
inappropriate name of the Palisades. 

The cigars, the glass, and the pleasant scenery, teeming as was 
the last with movement and life, appeared, for the moment, to drive 
from the minds of the two men ot the law the business on which 
they had met. It was a proof of the effect of habit that a person 
like Dunscomb, who was really a good man, and one who loved his 
fellow-creatures, could just then forget that a human life was, in 
some measure, dependent on the decisions of this very intqpview, 
and permit his thoughts to wander from so important an interest. 
So it was, however; and the first topic that arose in this consulta- 
tion had no reference whatever to Mary Monson or her approaching 
trial, though it soon led the colloquists round to her situation, as it 
might be, without their intending it. 


112 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


“ This is a charming retreat, Squire Dunscomb,” commenced 
Timms, settling himself with some method in a very commodious- 
arm-chair; “ and one that I should often frequent, did I own it.” 

“1 hope you will Jive to be master of one quite as pleasant, 
Timms, some time or other. They tell me your practice now is 
one of the best in Dukes; some two or three thousand a year, 1 dare 
say, if the truth were known.” 

“ It’s as good as anybody’s on our circuit, unless you count the 
bigwigs from York. 1 won’t name the sum, even to as old a 
friend as yourself, squire; for the man who lets the world peep into 
liis purse,* will soon find it footing him up, like a sum in arithmetic. 
You’ve gentlemen in town, however, who sometimes get more for a 
single case, than I can ’am in a twelvemonth.” - 

“Still, considering your beginning, and late appearance at the 
bar, Timms, you are doing pretty well. Do you lead in many trials 
at the circuit?” 

“ That depends pretty much on age, you know, squire. Gen’- 
rally older lawyers are put into all my causes; but 1 have carried^ 
one or two through, on my own shoulders, and that by main strength 
too.” 

“ It must have been by your facts, rather than "by your law. The- 
verdicts turned altogether on testimony, did they not?” 

“ Pretty much — and that's the sort of case 1 like. A man can pre- 
pare his evidence beforehand, and make some calculations where it 
will land him; but, as for the law, 1 do not see that studying it as 
hard as I will, makes me much the wiser. A case is no sooner set- 
tled one way by a judge in New York, than it is settled in another, 
in Pennsylvany or Virginny.” 

“ Ancf that, too, when courts were identical, and had a character! 
Now, we have eight Supreme Courts, and they are beginning to 
settle the law in eight different ways. Have you studied the Code 
pretty closely, Timms?” 

“ Not 1, sir. They tell me things will come round under it in 
time, and I try to be patient. There’s one thing about it that, I do 
like. It has taken all the Latin out of the law, which is a great 
help to us poor scholars.” 

“ It has that advantage, 1 confess; and before it is done, it will 
take all the law out of the Latin. They tell me it was proposed to 
call the old process of ‘ ne exeat ’ a writ of ‘ no go.’ ” 

“ Well, to my mind, the last would be the best term of the two.” 

“ Ay, to your mind, it might, Timms, How do you like the fee- 
bills, and the new mode of obtaining your compensation?” 

“ Capital! The more they change them matters, the deeper we ’ll 
dig into ’em, squire! I never knew reform help the great body of 
the community — all it favors is individdles.” 

“ There is more truth in that, Timms, than you are probably 
aware of yourself. Reform, fully half the time, does no more than 
shift the pack-saddle from one set of shoulders to another. Nor do 
I believe much is gained by endeavoring to make law cheap. It 
were better for the community that it should be dear; though cases 
do occur in which its charges might amount to a denial of justice. 
It is to be regretted that the world oftener decides under the influ- 
ence of exceptions, rather than under that of the rule. Besides, it 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


113 

is no easy matter to check the gains of a thousand cr two of hungry 
attorneys.” 

“ There you’re right, squire, if you never hit the nail on the head 
before! But the new scheme is working well for us, and, in one 
sense, it may work well for the people. The compensation is the 
first thing thought of now : and when that is the case, the client 
stops to think. It isn’t every person that holds as large and as open 
a purse as our lady at Biberry!” 

“ Ay, she continues to fee» you, does she, Timms? Pray, how 
much has she given you altogether?” 

44 Not enough to build a new wing to the Astor Library, nor to 
set up a parson in a gothic temple; still, enough to engage me, heart 
and hand, in her service. First and last, my receipts have been a 
thousand dollars, besides money for the outlays.” 

” Which have amounted to—” 

** More than as much more. This is a matter of life and death, 
you know, sir; and prices rise accordingly. All 1 have received has 
been handed to me either in gold or in good current paper. The 
first troubled me a good deal; fori was not certain some more pieces 
might not be recognized, though they were all eagles and half- 
eagles.” 

“Has any such recognition occurred?” demanded Dunscomb, 
with interest. 

“ To be frank with you, Squire Dunscomb, 1 sent the money to 
town at once, and set it afloat in the great current in Wall Street, 
where it could do neither good nor harm on the trial, it would have 
been very green in me to pay out the precise coin among the people 
of Dukes. No one could say what might have been the conse- 
quences.” 

” It is not very easy for me to foretell the consequences of the 
substitutes which, it seems, you did use. A fee to a counsel 1 can 
understand; but what the deuce you have done, legally, with a thou- 
sand dollars out-of-doors, exceeds my penetration. 1 trust you have 
not been attempting to purchase jurors, .Timms?” 

“ Not I, sir. 1 know the penalties too well, to venture on such a 
defense. Besides, it is too soon to attempt that game. Jurors may 
be bought; sometimes are bought, 1 have heard say ” — here Timms 
screwed up his face into a most significant mimicry of disapproba- 
tion — “ but / have done nothing of the sort in the ‘ State vs. Mary 
Monson. ’ It is too soon to operate, -even should the testimony drive 
us to that, in the long run.” 

”1 forbid all illegal measures, Timms. You know my rule of 
trying causes is never to overstep the limits of the law.” 

“ Yes, sir; 1 understand yonr principle, which will answer, pro- 
vided both sides stick to it. But, let a man act as close to what is 
called honesty as he please, what certainty has he that his adver- 
sary will observe the same rule? This is the great difficulty 1 find 
in getting along in the world, squire; opposition upsets all a man’s 
best intentions. Now, in politics, sir, there is no man in the coun- 
try better disposed to uphold respectable candidates and just prin- 
ciples than 1 am myself; but the other side squeezes us up so tight, 
that before the election comes off, I’m ready to vote for the devil, 
rather than get the worst of it. ” 


114 


THE WAYS OF THE HOJJK. 


“ Ay, that’s the wicked man’s excuse all over the world, Timms. 
In voting for the gentleman you have just mentioned, you will re- 
ipember you are sustaining the enemy of your race, whatever may 
•be his particular relation to his party. But in this affair at Biberry, 
you will please to remember it is not an election, nor is the devil a 
*eandidate. What success have you had with the testimony?” 

“ There’s an abstract of it, sir; and a pretty mess it is! So far as 
I can see, we shall have to rest entirely on the witnesses of the State; 
for 1 can get nothing out of the accqsed.” 

“ Does she still insist on her silence, in respect of the past?” 

“ As close as if she had been born dumb. 1 have told her in the 
strongest language, that her life depends on her appearing before 
the jury with a plain tale and a good character; but she will help 
me to neither. I never had such a client before—” 

“ Open-handed, you mean, 1 suppose, Timms?” 

“ In that partic’lar, Squire Dunscomb, she is just what the pro- 
fession likes— liberal, and pays down. Of course, I am so much 
the more anxious to do all I can in her case; but she will not let me 
serve her.” 

“ There must be some strong reason tor all this reserve, Timms. 
Have you questioned the Swiss maid, that my niece sent to her. 
We know her, and it would seem that she knows Mary Monson. 
Here. is so obvious a way of coming at the past, 1 trust you have 
spoken to her?” 

“ She will not let me say a word to the maid. There they live 
together, chatter with one another from morning to night, in French 
that nobody understands ; but will see no one but me, and me only 
in public, as it might be.” 

“In public! You have not asked for private interviews, eh, 
Timms? Kemember your views upon the county, and the great 
danger there is of the electors finding you out.” 

“ 1 well know. Squire Dunscomb, that your opinion of me is not 
very flattering in some partic’lars; while in others I think you place 
me pretty well up the ladder. As for old Dukes, I believe I stand 
as well in that count}' as apy man in it, now the Revolutionary 
partriots are nearly gone. So long as any of them lasted, we modern 
fellows had no chance; and the way in which relics were brought 
to light was wonderful! If Washington only had an army one- 
tenth as strong as these patriots, make it out to be, he would have 
driven the British from the country years sooner than it was act- 
ually done. Luckily, my grandfather did serve a short tour of duty 
;in that war; and my own father was a captain of militia in 1814, 
lying out on Harlem Heights and Harlem Common, most of the fall; 
when and where he caught the rheumatism. This was no bad cap- 
ital to start upon; and, though you treat it lightly, squire, I'm a 
favorite in the county — I am!” 

“ Nobody doubts it, Timms; or can doubt it, if he knew the 
history of these matters. Let me see — I believe I first heard of you 
-as a temperance lecturer?” 

“Excuse me; 1 began with the Common Schools, on which I 
lectured with some success, one whole season. Then came the tem- 
perance cause, out of which, 1 will own, not a little capital was 
made.” 


THE. WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


115 

“And do you stop there, Timms; or do you ride some other 
hobby into power?” 

“ It’s my way, Mr. Dunscomb, to try all sorts of med’cines. Some 
folks that wunt touch rhubarb will swallow salts; and all palates 
must be satisfied. Free Sile and Emancipation Doctrines are coming 
greatly into favor; but they are ticklish things, that cut like a two- 
edged sword, and I do not fancy meddling with them. There are 
about as many opposed to meddling with slavery in the free States, 
as there are in favor of it. I wish I knew your sentiments, Squire 
Dunscomb, on this subject. I’ve always found your doctrines 
touching the constitution to be sound, and such as would stand ex- 
amination.” 

“ The constitutional part of the question is very simple, and pre- 
sents no difficulties whatever,” returned the counselor, squinting 
through the ruby of his glass, with an old-bachelor sort of delight. 
“ except for those who have special ends to obtain.” 

“ Has, or has not, Congress a legal right to enact laws preventing 
the admission of slaves into California?” 

“ Congress has the legal right to govern any of its territories 
despotically ; of course, to admit or to receive what it may please 
within their limits. The resident of a territory is not a citizen, and 
has no legal claim to be so considered. California, as a conquered 
territory, may be thus governed by the laws of nations, unless the 
treaty of cession places some restrictions on the authority of the 
conqueror. A great deal of absurdity is afloat among those who 
should know better, touching the powers of government in this 
country. You, yourself, are one of those fellows, Timms, who get 
things upside-down, and fancy the constitution is to be looked into 
for everything.” 

“ And is it not, squire?— that is, in the way of theory— in prac- 
tice, 1 know it is a very different matter. Are we not to look into- 
the constitution for all the powers of the government?” 

“ Of the government , perhaps, m one sense— but not for those of 
the nation. Whence come the powers to make war and peace, to 
form treaties and alliances, maintain armies and navies, coin money,, 
etc.?” 

“ You’ll find them all in the constitution, as I read it, sir.” 

“ There is just your mistake; and connected with it are most of 
the errors that are floating about in our political world. The 
country gets its legal right to do all these things from the laws of 
nations; the constitution merely saying who shall be its agents in 
the exercise of these powers. Thus war is rendered legal by the 
custom of nations; and the constitution says Congress shall declare 
war. It also says Congress shall pass all laws that become neces- 
sary to carry out this power. It follows, Congress may pass any 
law that has a legitimate aim to secure a conquest. Nor is this all 
the functionaries of the government can do, on general principles, 
in the absence of any special provisions by a direct law. The latter 
merely supersedes or directs the power of the former. The consti- 
tution guarantees nothing to the territories. They are strictly sub- 
ject, and may be governed absolutely. The only protection of 
their people is in the sympathy and habits of the people of the States. 
We give them political liberty, not as of legal necessity, but as a 


116 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


i)oon to which they are entitled in good-fellowship — or as the father 
provides for his children/’ 

“Then you think Congress has power to exclude slavery from 
California?” 

“ I can’t imagine a greater legal absurdity than to deny it. I see 
no use in any legislation on the subject, as a matter ol practice, 
since California will shortly decide on this interest for itself; but, 
as a right in theory, it strikes me to be madness to deny that the 
government of the United States has full power over all its terri- 
tories, both on general principles and under the constitution.” 

“ And in the Deestrict— you hold to the same power in the 
Deestrict?” 

“Beyond a question. Congress can abolish domestic servitude t 
or slavery in the District of Columbia, whenever it shall see fit. The* 
right is as clear as the sun at noon day.” 

“ It these are your opinions, Squire, I’ll go for Free Sile and 
Abolition in the Deestrict. They have a popular cry, and take 
wonderfully well in Dukes, and will build me up considerable. I 
like to be right; but, most of all, I like to be strong.” 

“ If you adopt such a course, you will espouse trouble without 
any dower, and that will be worse than McBrain’s three wives; and, 
what is more, in the instance of the District, you will be guilty of 
an act of oppression. You will remember that the possession of a 
legal power to do a particular thing, does not infer a moral right to 
exercise it. As respects your Free Soil, it may be well to put down 
a foot; and, so far as votes legally used can be thiown, to prevent 
the further extension of slavery. In this respect you are right 
enough, and will be sustained by an overwhelming majority of the 
nation; but, when it comes to the District, the question has several 
sides to it.” 

“You said yourself, Squire, that Congress has all power to leg- 
islate for the Deestrict?” / 

“ No doubt it has — but the possession of a power does not neces- 
sarily imply its use. We have power, as a nation, to make war on 
little Portugal, and crush her; but it would be very wicked to do so. 
When a member of Congress votes on any question that strictly ap- 
plies to the District, he should reason precisely as if his constituents 
all lived in the District itself. You will understand, Timrns, that 
liberty is closely connected with practice, and is not a mere creat- 
ure of phrases and professions. What more ihtolerable tyranny 
could exist than to have a man elected by New Y'orkers legislating 
for the District on strictly New York policy; or, if you will, on New 
York prejudices? If the people of the District wish to get rid of 
the institution of domestic slavery, there are ways for ascertaining 
the fact; and once assured of that, Congress ought to give the re- 
quired relief. But in framing such a law, great care should be 
taken not to violate the comity of the Union. The comity of nations 
is, in practice, a portion of their laws, and is respected as such ; how 
much more, then, ought we to respect this comity in managing the 
relations between the several States of this Union!” 

“ Yes, the sovereign States of the Union,” laying emphasis on the 
word we have italicized. 


THE WAYS 'OF THE HOUR. 117 

“ Pshaw — they are no more sovereign than you and 1 are sov- 
ereign.” 

“Not sovereign, sir!” exclaimed Timms, actually jumping to his 
feet in astonishment; *' why this is against the National Faith— con- 
trary to all the theories.” 

“ Something so, 1 must confess; yet very good common sense. If 
there be any sovereignty left in the States, it is the very minimum, 
and a thing of show, rather than of substance. If you will look at 
the constitution, you will find that the equal representation of the 
States in the Senate is the only right of a sovereign character that is 
left to the members of the Union separate and apart from their con- 
federated communities.” 

Timms rubbed his brows, and seemed to be in some mental 
trouble. The doctrine of the “ Sovereign States ” is so very com- 
mon. so familiar in men’s mouths, that no one dreams of disputing 
it. Nevertheless, Dunscomb had a great reputation in his set, as a 
constitutional lawyer; and the “ expounders” were very apt to steal 
his demonstrations, without giving him credit for them. As before 
the nation, a school-boy would have carried equal weight; but the 
^direct, vigorous, common-sense arguments that he brought to the 
discussions, as well as the originality of his views, ever commanded 
the profound respect of the intelligent. Timms had cut out for 
himself a path by which he intended to ascend in the scale of soci- 
ety; and had industriously, if not very profoundly, considered all 
the agitating questions of the day, in the relations they might be 
supposed to bear to his especial interests. He had almost determined 
to come out an abolitionist; for he saw that the prejudices of the 
hour were daily inclining the electors of the Northern States, more 
and more, to oppose the further extension of domestic slavery, so far 
as surface was concerned, which was in effect preparing the way 
for the final destruction of the institution altogether. For Mr. 
Dunscomb, however, this wily limb of the law, and skillful man- 
ager of men, had the most profound respect; and he was very glad 
to draw him out still further on a subject that was getting to be of 
such intense interest to himself, as well as to the nation at large; 
ior, out of all doubt, it is the question, not only of the “Hour,” 
but for years to come. 

“ Well, sir, this surprises me more and. more. The States not 
sovereign! Why, they gave all the power it possesses to the Federal 
Government!” 

“ Very true; and it is precisely for that reason they are not sov- 
ereign — that which is given away is no longer possessed. All the 
great powers of sovereignty are directly bestowed on the Union, 
which alone possesses them. ” 

“ 1 will grant you that, squire; but enough is retained to hang 
either of us. Ihe deuce is in it if that be not a sovereign power.” 

“ It. does not follow from the instance cited. Send a squadron 
abroad, and its officers can hang; but they are not sovereign, for 
the simple reason that there is a recognized authority over them, 
which can increase, sustain, or take away altogether any such and 
all other power. Thus is it with the States. By a particular clause, 
the constitution can he amended, including all the interests involved, 
with a single exception. This is an instance in which the exception 


118 THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 

does strictly prove the rule. All interests but the one excepted can be 
dealt with, by a species of legislation that is higher than common. 
The Union can constitutionally abolish domestic slavery alto- 
gether—” 

“ It can! It would be the making of any political man's fortune 
to be able to show that /” 

“ Nothing is easier than to show it, in the way of theory, Timms; 
though nothing would be harder to achieve, in the way ol practice. 
The constitution can be legally amended so as to effect this end, 
provided majorities in three fourths of the States can be obtained, 
though every living soul in the remaining States were opposed to it. 
That this is the just construction ot the great fundamental law, as. 
it has been solemnly adopted, no discreet man can doubt; though, 
on the other hand, no discreet person would thiuk of attempting 
such a measure, as - the vote necessary to success can not be obtained 
To talk of the sovereignty of a community over this particular in- 
terest, for' instance, when, all the authority on the subject can be 
taken from it in direct opposition to the wishes of every man, 
woman and child it contains, is an absurdity. The sovereignty, as 
respects slavery, is in the Union, and not in the several States; and 
therein you can see the fallacy of contending that Congress has 
nothing to do with the interest, when Congress can take the initiative- 
in altering this or any other clause of the great national compact.” 

“But, the Deestrict— the Deestrict, Squire Dunscomb— what can 
and ought to be done there?” 

“ 1 believe in my soul, Timffis, you have an aim on a Seat in 
Congress! Why stop short of the Presidency?- Men as little likely 
as yourself to be elevated to that high office have been placed in the 
executive chair; and why not you as well ass another?” 

“ It is an office * neither to be sought nor declined,’ said an emi- 
nent statesman,” answered Timms, with a seriousness that amused 
his companion; who saw, by his manner, that his old pupil held 
himself in reserve for accidents ot polilical life. “But, sir, I am 
very anxious to get right on the subject ot the Deestrict ” —Timms 
pronounced .this word as we have spelt it — “ and 1 know- that if any 
man can set me right, it is yourself.” 

“ As respects the District, Mr. Timms, here is my faith. It is a 
territory provided for in the constitution for a national purpose, 
and must be regarded as strictly national property, held exclusively 
for objects that call all classes of citizens within its borders. Now, 
two great principles, in my view, should control all legislation for 
this little community. As I have said already, it would be tyranny 
1o make the notions and policy of New York or "Vermont, bear on 
the legislation of the District; but every member is bound to act 
strictly as a representative of the people of the spot for whom the 
law is intended. If I were in Congress, 1 would at any time, on a 
respectable application, vote to refer the question of abolition to the 
people of the District; if they said -ay, 1 would say ay; if no, no. 
Beyond this 1 would never go; nor do 1 think the man w T ho wishes 
to push matters beyond this sufficiently respects the general prin- 
ciples ot representative government, or knows liow to respect the 
spirit of the national compact. On the supposition that the District 
ask relief from the institution of slavery, great care should be ob- 


THE WAYS dP THE HOUJR. 119 

.served in granting the necessary legislation. . Although the man in 
South Carolina has no more right to insist that the District should 
maintain the ‘peculiar institution,’ because his particular State 
maintains it, than the Vermontese to insist on carrying his Green 
Mountain notions into the District laws; yet has the Carolinian 
rights in this territory that must ever be respected, let the general 
policy adopted be what it may. Every American has an implied 
right to visit the District on terms of equality. Now, there would 
be no equality if a law were passed excluding the domestics from 
any portion of the country. In the slave States, slaves exclusively 
perform the functions of domestics; and sweeping abolition might 
very easily introduce regulations that would be unjust toward the 
-slave-holders. As respects the Northern man, the existence of 
slavery in or out of the District is purely a speculative question; 
but it is not so with the Southern. This should never be forgotten; 
and I always feel disgust when 1 hear a Northern man swagger and 
make a parade of his morality on this subject.” 

“ But the Southern men swagger and make a parade of their 
chivalry, squire, on the other hand!” 

“Quite true; but,, with them, there is a strong provocation. It is 
a matter of life and death to the South; and the comity of which 1 
spoke requires great moderation on our part. As for the threats of 
dissolution, of which we have had so many, like the cry of ‘ W.olf,’ 
$hey have worn themselves out, and are treated with indifference.” 

“ The threat is still used, Mr. Dunscomb!” 

“Beyond a doubt, Timms; but of one thing you may rest well 
assured— if ever there be a separation between the free and the slave 
States of this Union, the wedge will be driven home by Northern 
hands; not by indirection, but coolly, steadily, and with a thorough 
Northern determination to open the seam. There will be no fuss 
about chivalry, but the thing will be done. 1 regard the measure as 
very unlikely to happen, the Mississippi and its tributaries binding 
.the States together, to say nothing of ancestry, history, and moral 
ties, in a way to render a rupture very difficult to effect; but, should 
it come at all, rely on it, it will come directly from the North. I 
am sorry to say there is an impatience of the threats and expedients 
that have so much disfigured Southern policy, that have set many at 
the North to ‘calculating the value;' and thousands may now be 
found where ten years since it would not have been easy to meet 
with one, who deem separation better than union with slavery. 
Still, the general feeling of the North is passive; and 1 trust it will 
so continue.” 

“ Look at the laws for the recovery of fugitives, squire, and the 
manner in which they are administered.” 

“ Bad enough,- 1 grant you, and full of a want of good faith. Go 
to the bottom of this subject, Timms, or let it alone altogether. 
Some men will tell you tbat slavery is a sin, and contrary to revealed 
religion. This l hold to be quite untrue. At all events, if it be a 
sin, it is a sin to give the son the rich inheritance of the father, in- 
stead of dividing it among the poor; to eat a dinner while a hungrier 
man than yourself is within sound of your voice; or, indeed, to do 
anything that is necessary and agreeable, when the act may be still 
more necessary to, or confer greater pleasure on, another. 1 believe 


120 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUB. 


in a Providence, and 1 make little doubt that African slavery is act 
important featiire in God’s laws, instead of being disobedience to 
them. But enough of this, Timms — you will court popularity, 
which is your Archimedean lever, and forget all 1 tell you. Is 
Mary Monson in greater favor now than when 1 last saw you?” 

“ The • question is not easily answered, sir. She pays well, and 
money is a powerful screw!” 

4 ‘ 1 do not inquire what you do with her money,” said Dunscomb, 
with the evasion of a man who knew that it would not do to probe 
every weak spot in morals, any more than it would do to inflame 
the diseases of the body; “ but, 1 own, 1 should like to know if our 
client has any suspicions of its uses?” 

Timms now cast a furtive glance behind him, and edged his chair 
nearer to his companion, in a confidential way, as if he would trust 
Mm wilh a private opinion that he should keep religiously from all 
others. 

“Not only does she know all about it,” he answered, with a 
knowing inclination of the head, “ but she enters into'tlie affair, 
heart and hand. To my great surprise, she has even made two or 
three suggestions that were capital in their way! Capital ! yes, sir; 
quite capital! If you were not so stiff in your practice, squire, 1 
should delight to tell you all about it. She’s sharp, you may de- 
pend on it! She’s wonderfully sharp!” 

“ What! That refined, lady-like, accomplished young woman!” 

“ She has an accomplishment or two you’ve never dreamed of, 
squire. I’d pit her ag’in the sharpest practitioner in Dukes, and 
she’d come out ahead. 1 thought 1 knew something of preparing a 
cause; but she has given hints that will be worth more to me than 
all her feesl” 

“You do not mean that she shows experience in such practices?” 4 

“Perhaps not. It seems more like mother-wit, I acknowledge;, 
but it’s mother-wit of the brightest sort. She understands them re- 
porters by instinct, as it might be. What is more, she backs all her 
suggestions with gold, or current bank-notes.” 

“ And where can she get so much money?” 

“That is more than 1 can tell you,” returned Timms, opening 
some papers belonging to the case, and laying them a little formally 
before the senior counsel, to invite his particular attention. “ I’ve 
never thought it advisable to ask the question.” 

“ Timms, you do not, can not think Mary Monson guilty?” 

“ 1 never go beyond the necessary facts of a case; and my opinion 
is of no consequence whatever. We are employed to defend her; 
and the counsel for the State are not about to get a verdict without 
working some lor it. That’s my conscience in these matters, Squire 
Dunscomb.” 

Dunscomb asked no more questions. He turned gloomily to the 
papers, shoved his glass aside, as if it gave him pleasure no longer, 
and began to read. For near tour hours he and Timms were ear- 
nestly engaged in preparing a brief, and in otherwise getting the 
cause ready for trial. 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


121 


CHAPTER XII. 

Hel. Oh, that my prayers could such affection move 

Her. The more I hate, the more he follows me. 

Hel. The more 1 love, the more he hateth me. 

Her. His folly, Helena, is no fault of mine. 

Midsummer Night's Dream. 

While Dunscomb and Timms were thus employed, the younger 
members of the party very naturally sought modes of entertaiument 
that were more in conformity with their tastes and years. John 
Wilmeter had been invited to be present at the consultation; but his 
old feelings were revived, and he found a pleasure in being with 
Anna that induced him to disregard the request. His sifter and his 
friend were now betrothed, and they had glided off along one of 
the pretty paths of the Rattletrap woods, in a way that is so very 
common to persons in their situation. This left Jack alone with 
Anna. The latter was timid, shy even; while the former was 
thoughtful. Still, it was not easy to separate; and they, too. almost 
unconsciously to themselves, were soon walking in that pleasant 
wood, following one of its broadest and most frequented paths, 
however. 

John, naturally enough, imputed the thoughtfulness of his com- 
panion to the event of the morning; and he spoke kindly to her, 
and with a gentle delicacy on the subject, that more than once com- 
pelled the warm-hearted girl to struggle against her tears. After he 
had said enough on this topic, the young man followed the current 
of his own thoughts, and spoke of her he had left in the jail of 
Biberry. 

“ Her case is most extraordinary,” continued John, “ and it has 
excited our liveliest sympathy. By ours, I mean the disinterested 
and intelligent; for the vulgar prejudice is strong- against her. 
Sarah, or even yourself, Anna ” — his companion looked more like 
herself, at this implied compliment, than she had done before that 
day — “ could not seem less likely to be guilty of anything wrong, 
than this Miss Monson; yet she stands indicted, and is to be tried 
for murder and arson! To me, it seems monstrous to suspect such 
a person of crimes so heinous.” 

Anna remained silent half a minute; for she had sufficient good 
sense to know that appearances, unless connected with facts, ought 
to have no great weight in forming an opinion of guiltor innocence. 
As Jack evidently expected an answer, however, .his companion 
made an effort to speak. 

“ Does she say nothing of her friends, nor express a wish to have 
them informed of her situation?” Anna succeeded in asking. 

“ Not a syllable. I could not speak to her on the subject, you 
know—” 

“ Why not?” demanded Anna, quickly. 

“Why not? You’ve no notion, Anna, of the kind of person this 
Miss Monson is. You can not talk to her as you would to an every- 
day sort of youne lady; and, now she is in such distress, one is nat- 
urally more cautious about saying anything to add to her sorrow.” 


122 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


“Yes, I can understand tfiai,” returned the generous-minded 
girl; “ and 1 think you are very right to remember all this, on every 
occasion. Still, it is so natural for a female to lean on her friends, 
in every great emergency, 1 can not but wonder that your client — 

“ Don’t call her my client, Anna, 1 beg of you. 1 hate the word 
as applied to this lady. If 1 serve her in any degree, it is solely as- 
a friend. The same feeling prevails with Uncle Tom; for I under- 
stand he has not received a cent of Miss Monson’s money, though 
she is liberal of it to profuseness. Timms is actually getting rick- 
on it.” 

“ Is it usual for you gentlemen of the bar to give your services 
gratuitohsly to those who can pay for them?” 

“As far from it as possible,” returned Jack, laughing. “We 
look to the main chance like so many merchants or brokers, and 
seldom open our mouths without shutting our hearts. But this is 
a case altogether out of the common rule; and Mr. Dunscomb works 
for love, and not for money.” 

Had Anna cared less for John Wilmeter, she might have said 
something clever about the nephew’s being in the same category as 
the uncle; but her feelings were too deeply interested to suffer her 
even to think what would seem to her profane. After a moment’s 
pause, therefore, she quietly said; 

“ 1 believe you have intimated that Mr. Timms is not quite so dis- 
interested?” 

“ Hot he— Miss Monson has given him fees amounting to a thou- 
sand dollars, by his own admission : and Ihe fellow has had the con- 
science to take the money. 1 have remonstrated about his fleecing 
a friendless woman in this extravagant manner; but he laughs in 
my face for my pains. Timms has good points, but honesty is not 
one of them. He says no woman can be friendless who has a pretty 
face, and a pocket full of money.” 

“ You can hardly call a person unfriended who has so much money 
at command, John,” Anna answered with timidity; but not with- 
out manifest interest in the subject. “ A thousand dollars sounds 
like a large sum to me!” 

“ It is a good deal of money for a fee; though much more is some- 
times given. 1 dare say Miss Monson would have gladly given the 
same to Uncle Tom, if he would have taken it. Timms told me 
that she proposed offering as much to him; but he persuaded her to 
wait until the trial was over.” 

“ And where does alt this money come from, John?” 

“ I’m sure I do not know— I am not at all in Miss Monson’s con- 
fidence; on her ‘pecuniary affairs, at least. She does honor me so 
much as to consult me about her trial occasionally, it is true; but to^ 
me sfie has never alluded to money, except to ask me to obtain 
change for large notes. 1 do not see anything so very wonderful in 
a lady’s having money. You, who are' a sort of heiress yourself,, 
ought to know that.” 

“ I do not get money in lliousands, 1 can assure you, Jack; nor 
do 1 think that 1 have it to get. 1 believe my whole income would 
not much more than meet the expenditure of this strange woman-”' 

“ Do not call her woman, Anna; it pains me to hear you speak of 
her in such Terms.” 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 123 

I beg her pardon arid, yours, Jack; but I meant no disrespect. 
We are all women.” 

“ 1 know it is foolish to feel nervous on such a subject; but 1 can 
not help it. One connects so many ideas of vulgarity and crime, 
with prisons, and indictments, and trials, that we are apt to suppose 
all who are accused to belong to the commoner classes.' Such is not 
the fact with Miss Monson, I can assure you. Not even Sarah— nay, 
not even yourself, my dear Anna, can pretend to more decided marks 
of refinement and education. 1 do not know a more distinguished 
young woman — ” 

“ There, Jack; now you call her a woman yourself,” interrupted 
Anna, a little archly; secretly delighted at the compliment she had 
just heard. 

“ Young woman — anybody can say that, you know, without im- 
plying anything common or vulgar; and woman too, sometimes. 1 
do not know how it was; but 1 did not.exactly like the word as you 
happened to use it. 1 believe close and long watching is making me 
nervous; and 1 am not quite as much myself as usual.” 

Anna gave a very soft sigh, and that seemed to aflord her relief, 
though it was scarcely audible; then she continued the subject. 

“How old is this extraordinary young lady?” she demanded, 
scarce speaking loud enough to be heard. 

“Old! How can 1 tell? She is very youthful in appearance; 
but, v from the circumstance of her having so much money at com- 
mand, 1 take it for granted she is of age. The law now gives to 
every woman the full command of all her property, even though 
married, after she become of age.” 

“ Which 1 trust you find a very proper attention to the rights of 
our sex?” 

“ 1 care very little about it; though Uncle Tom says it is of a piece 
-with all our late New York legislation.” 

“Mr. Dunscomb, like most elderly persons, has little taste for 
change.” 

“It is not that. He thinks that minds of an ordinary stamp are 
■running away with the conceit that they are on the road of progress; 
and that most of our recent improvements, as they are called, are 
marked by empiricism. This £ tea-cup law,’ as he terms it, will set 
the women above their husbands, and create two sets of interests 
where there ought to be but one.” 

“Yes; I am aware such is his opinion. He remarked, the day 
-he brought home my mother’s settlement for the signatures, that it 
was the most ticklish part of his profession to prepare such papers. 
1 remember one of his observations, which struck me as being very 
just.” 

Which you mean to repeat to me, Anna?” 

“ Certainly, John, if you wish to hear it,” returned a gentle 
voice, coming from one unaccustomed to refuse any of the reason- 
able requests of this particular applicant. “ The remark of Mr. 
Dunscomb was this: He said that most family misunderstandings 
grew out of money; and he thought it unwise to set it up as a bone 
of contention between man and wife. Where there was so close a 
union in all other matters, he thought there might safely be a com- 
munity of interests in this respect. He saw no sufficient reason for 


124 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUK. 


altering the old law, which had the great merit of having been* 
tried.” 

“ He could hardly persuade rich fathers, and vigilant guardians, 
who have the interests of heiresses to look after, to subscribe to all 
his notions. They say that it is better to make a provision against 
imprudence and misfortune, by settling a woman’s fortune on her- 
self, in a country where speculation tempts so many to their ruin.*” 

“ 1 do not object to anything that may have an eye to an evil day, 
provided it be done openly and honestly. But the income should be 
common property, and like all that belongs to a family, should pass- 
under the control of its head. ” 

“ It is very liberal in you to say and think this, Anna!” 

“ It is what every woman, who has a true woman’s heart, could 
wish, and would do. For myself, 1 would marry no man whom I 
did not respect and look up. to in most things; and surely, it I gavo^ 
him my heart and my hand* 1 could wish to give him as much con- 
trol over my means as circumstances would at all allow. It might 
be prudent to provide against misfortune by means of settlements; 
but this much done, I feel certain it would afford me the greatest 
delight to commit all that 1 could to a husband’s keeping.” 

“ Suppose that husband were a spendthrift, and wasted your 
estate?” 

“ He could waste but the income, were there a settlement; and 1 
would rather share the consequences of his imprudence with him, 
than sit aloof in selfish enjoyment of that in which he did not par- 
take.” 

All this sounded very well in John’s ears; and he knew Anna 
TJpdvke too well to suppose sne did not fully mean all that she said.. 
He wondered what might be Mary Monson’s views on this subject. 

“ It is possible for the husband to partake oi the wife’s wealth,, 
even when he does not command it,” the young man resumed, anx- 
ious to hear what more Anna might have to say. 

“ What! as. a dependent on her bounty? No woman who respects 
herself could wish to see her husband so degraded; nay, no female, 
who has a true woman’s heart, would ever consent to place the man 
to whom she has given her hand, in so false a position. It is for 
the woman to be dependent on the man, and not the man on the 
woman. 1 agree fully with Mr. Dunscomb, when he says that 
* silken knots are too delicate to be rudely undone by dollars.’ The 
family in which the head has to ask the wife for the money that is 
to support it, must soon go wrong; as it is placing the weaker vessel 
uppermost.” 

“ You would make a capital wife, Anna, if these are really your 
opinions!” 

Anna blushed, and almost repented of her generous warmth; but, 
being perfectly sincere, she would not deny her sentiments. 

“'They ought to be the opinion of every wife,” she answered. 

1 could not endure to see the man to whom 1 could wish on all 
occasions to look up, soliciting the means on which we both sub- 
sisted. It would be my delight, if I had money and he had none, 
to pour all into his lap, and then come and ask of him as much as 
was necessary to my comfort.” 

“ If he had the soul of a man he would not wait to be asked, but 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 125 

would endeavor to anticipate your smallest wants. 1 believe you. 
are right, and that happiness is best secured by confidence.” 

“ And in not reversing the laws of nature. Why do worn en vow 
to obey and honor their husbands, if they are to retain them as de- 
pendents? I declare, John Wil meter, 1 should almost despise the 
man who could consent to live with me on any terms but those in 
which nalure, the church, and reason, unite in telling us he ought 
to be the superior.” 

“Well, Anna, this is good, old-fashioned, womanly sentiment ; 
and 1 will confess it delights me to hear it from you. 1 am the 
better pleased, because, as Uncle Tom is always complaining, the 
weakness of the hour is to place your sex above ours, and to reverse 
all the ancient rules in this respect. Let a woman, nowadays, run 
away from her husband, and carry off the children; it is ten to one 
but some crotchety judge, who thinks more of a character built 
up on gossip than of deferring properly to that which the laws of 
God and the wisdom of man have decreed, refuse to issue a writ of 
habeas corpus to restore the issue to the father.” 

”1 do not know, John,” — Anna hesitatingly rejoined, with a 
true woman’s instinct — “ it would be so hard to rob a mother of her 
children!” 

“ It might *be hard, but in such a case it would be just. I like* 
that word ‘ rob,’ for it suits both parties. To me, it seems that the 
father is the party rob’bed, when the wife not only steals away from 
her duty to her husband, but deprives him of his children too.” 

“ It is wrong, and 1 have heard Mr. Dunscomb express great in- 
dignation at what he called the ‘ soft-soapiness ’ of certain judges 
in cases of this nature. Still, John, the world is apt to think a 
woman would not abandon the most sacred of her duties without a 
cause. That feeling must be at the bottom of what you call the de- 
cision, 1 believe, of these judges.” 

“If there be such a cause as would justify a woman in desert- 
ing her husband, and in stealing his children— for it is robbery after 
all, and robbery of the worst sort, since it involves breaches of faith 
of the most heinous nature— let that cause be shown, that justice 
may pronounce between the parties. Besides, it is not true that 
women will not sometimes forget their duties without sufficient cause. 
There are capricious, and uncertain, and egotistical women, who- 
follow their own wayward inclinations, as well as selfish men. 
Some women love power intensely, and are never satisfied with sim- 
ply filling the place that was intended for them by nature. It is, 
hard for such to-sub'mit to their husbands, or, indeed, to submit to 
any one.” 

“ It must be a strange female,” answered Anna, gently, “who 
can not suffer the control of the man of her choice, after quitting 
father and mother for his sake.” 

“Different women have different sources of pride, that make^ 
their husbands very uncomfortable, even when they remain with 
them, and affect to discharge their duties. One will pride herself 
on family, and take every occasion to let her beloved partner know 
how much better she is connected than he may happen to be- 
another is conceited, and fancies herself cleverer than her lord and 
master, and would fain have him take her advice on all occasions £ 


126 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


while a third may have the most money, and delight in letting it be 
known that it is her pocket that sustains the household.” 

”1 did not know, John, that you thought so much of these 
things,” said Anna, laughing; “ though 1 think you are very right 
in your opinions. Pray, which of the three evils that you have 
mentioned would you conceive the greatest?” 

“ The second, i might stand family pride; though it is disgust- 
ing when it is not ridiculous. Then the money might be got along 
with for its own sake, provided the purse were in my hand; but X 
really do not think 1 could live with a woman who fancied she 
knew the most.” 

But, in many things, women ought to, and do, know the most.” 

“Oh! as to accomplishments, and small talk, and making pre- 
serves, and dancing, and even poetry and religion— yes, I will throw 
in religion — I could wish my wife to be clever — very clever — as 
clever as you are yourself, Anna”— the fair listener colored, 
though her eyes brightened at this unintended but very direct com- 
pliment — “ yes, yes"; all that would do well enough. But when it 
came to the affairs of men, out-of-door concerns, or politics, or law, 
or anything, indeed, that called for a masculine education and un- 
derstanding, 1 could not endure a woman who fancied she knew the 
most.” 

“ 1 should think few wives would dream of troubling their hus- 
bands with their opinions touching the law!”' 

“ I don’t know that. You've no notion, Anna, to what a pass 
conceit can carry a person; you, who are so diffident and shy, and 
always so ready to yield to those who ought to know best. I’ve met 
with women yvlio, not content with arraying their own charms in 
their own ways, must fancy they can teach us how to put on our 
clothes, tell us how to turn over a wristband, or settle a shirt-col- 
lar!” 

“ This is not conceit, John, but good taste,” cried Anna, now 
laughing outright, and appearing herself again. “It is merely 
female tact teaching male awkwardness how to adorn itself. But, 
surely, no woman, John, would bother herself about law, let her love 
of domination be as strong as it might.” 

“ I’m. not so sure of that. The only really complaisant thing I ever 
saw about this Mary Monson ”— a cloud again passed athwart the 
bright countenance of Anna— “ was a sort of strange predilection 
for law. Even Timms has remarked it, and commented on it too.” 

“ The poor woman—” 

“ Do not use that word in speaking of her, if you please, Anna.” 

“ Well, lady— if you like that better—” 

“ No — say young lady— or Miss Monson— or Mary, which has the 
most agreeable sound of ail.” 

“Yet, I think 1 have been told that none of you believe she has 
beeu indicted by her real name.” 

“Very true; but it makes no difference. Call her by that she 
has assumed; but do not call her by an alias as wretched as that of 
' poor woman.’ ” 

“ I meant no slight, 1 do assure you, John; for I feel almost as 
much interest in Miss MQnson as you do yourself. It is not sur- 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 127 

prising, however, that one in her situation should feel an interest in 
the law.” 

“ It is not this sort ot interest that 1 mean. It has seemed to me, 
once or twice, that she dealt with the difficulties of her own case as- 
it she took a pleasure in meeting them — had a species of profes- 
sional pleasure in conquering them. Timms will not let me into his 
secrets, and 1 am glad of it, tor 1 fancy all of them would not bear 
the light; but he tells me, honestly, that some of MissMonson’s sug- 
gestions have been quite admirable!” 

‘‘Perhaps she has been” — Anna checked herself with the con- 
sciousness that what she was about to utter might appear to be, and, 
what was of still gieater importance in her own eyes, migh.t really 
be, ungenerous. 

‘‘ Perhaps what? Finish the sentence, I beg of you.” 

Anna shook her head. 

‘‘You intended to say that perhaps Miss Monson had some ex- 
perience in the law, and that it gave her a certain satisfaction to con- 
tend with its difficulties, in consequence of previous training. Am 
1 not right?” 

Anna would not answer in terms; but she gave a little nod in as- 
sent, coloring scarlet. 

“1 knew it; and 1 will be frank enough to own that Timms 
thinks the same thing. He has hinted as much as that; but the 
thing is impossible. You have only to look at her, to see that such 
a thing is impossible.” 

Anna Updyke thought that almost anything of the sort might be 
possible to a female who was in the circumstances of the accused; 
this, however, she would not say, lest it might wound John’s fe'el- 
ings, for which she had all the tenderness of warm affection, and a 
woman’s self-denial. Had the case been reversed, it is by no means 
probable that her impulsive companion would have manifested the 
same forbearance on her account. John would have contended for 
victory, and pressed his adversary with all the arguments, facts and 
reasons he could muster, on such an occasion. Not so with the 
gentler and more thoughtful young woman who was now walking 
quietly, and a little sadly, at his side, instinct with all the gentle- 
ness, self-denial, and warm-hearted affection ot her sex. 

‘‘No, it is worse than an absurdity ’’—resumed John— ‘‘it is 

cruel, to imagine anything of the sort of Miss By the way, 

Anna, do you know that a very singular thing occurred last even- 
ing, before 1 drove over to town, to be present at the wedding. You 
know Marie Mill?” 

*‘ Certainly — Marie Moulin, you should say.” 

‘‘ Well, in answering one of her mistress’s questions, she said 
‘ out, madame.' ” 

“ What would you have her say? — ‘ non , madame ’?” 

“ But why madame at all? Why not mademoiselle?” 

“ It would be very vulgar to say ‘ Yes, miss,’ in English.” 

” To be suje it would; but it is very different in French. One 
can say— must say mademoiselle to a young unmarried female in? 
that language; though it be vulgar to say miss, without the name, 
in English. French, you know, Anna, is a much more precise lan- 
guage than our own; and those who speak it, do not take the liber- 


128 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


ties with it that we take with the English. Madame always infers 
a married woman; unless, indeed, it be with a woman a hundred 
years old." 

“No French woman is ever that , John — but it is odd that Marie 
Moulin, who so well understands the usages of her own little world, 
should have said madame to a demoiselle. Have 1 not heard, never- 
theless, that Marie’s first salutation, when she was admitted to the 
jail, was a simple exclamation of ‘ mademoiselle ’?” 

“ That is very true; for 1 heard it myself. What is more, that 
exclamation was almost as remarkable as this; French servants 
always adding the name under such circumstances, unless they are 
addressing their own particular Unstresses. Madame and mademoi- 
selle are appropriated to those they serve; while it is mademoiselle 
this, or madame that, to every one else." 

“ And now she calls her mademoiselle or madame! It only proves 
that too much importance' is not to be attached to Marie Moulin ’s 
sayings and doings." 

“ I’m not so sure of that. Marie has been three years in this 
country, as we all know. Now the young person that she left a 
mademoiselle might very well have become a madame in that interval 
of time. When they met, the domestic may have used the old and 
familiar term in her surprise; or she may not have known of the 
lady’s marriage. Afterward, when there had been leisure for ex- 
planations between them, she gave her mistress her proper appella- 
tion." ' 

“ Does she habitually say madame now, in speaking to this singu- 
lar being?" 

“ Habitually she is silent. Usually she remains in the cell, when 
any one is with Miss — or Mrs. Monson, perhaps I ought to say ’’ — 
John used this last term with a strong expression of spite, which 
gave his companion a suppressed but infinite delight — “ but when 
any one is with the mistress, call her what you will, the maid com- 
monly remains in the dungeon or cell. Owing to this, I have never 
been in the way of hearing the last address the first, except on the 
4wo occasions named. 1. confess 1 begin to think — " 

“ What, John?" 

“ Why, that our Miss Monson may turn out to be a married 
woman, after all." 

“ She is very young, is she not? Almost too young to be a 
wife?" 

“Not at all! What do you call too young? She is between 
twenty and twenty-two or three. She may even be twenty-five or 
six." 

Anna sighed, though almost imperceptibly to herself; for these 
were ages that well suited her companion, though the youngest ex- 
ceeded her own by a twelvemonth. Little more, however, was said 
on the subject at that interview. 

It is one of the singular effects of the passion of love, more 
especially with the generous-minded and just of the' female sex, 
that a lively interest is often aw r akened in behalf of a successful or 
favored rival. Such was now the fact as regards the feeling that 
Anna Updyke began to entertain toward Mary Monson. The crit- 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


129 

ical condition of the lady would of itself excite interest where it 
failed to produce distrust; but, the circumstance that John Wil- 
meter saw so much to admire in this unknown female, it he did not 
actually love her, gave her an importance in the eyes of Anna that 
at once elevated her into an object of the highest interest. She was 
seized with the liveliest desire to see the accused, and began seri- 
ously to reflect on the possibility of effecting such an end. hJo vul- 
gar curiosity was mingled with this new-born purpose; but, in ad- 
dition to the motives that were connected with John’s state of mind, 
there was a benevolent and truly feminine wish, on the part of 
Anna, to be of service to one of her own sex, so cruelly placed, and 
cut off, as it would seem, from all communication with those who 
should be her natural protectors and advisers. 

Anna Updyke gathered, through that which had fallen from 
Wilmeter and his sister, that the intercourse between the former and 
his interesting client had been of the most reserved character; 
therein showing a discretion and self-respect on the part of the 
prisoner, that spoke well for her education and delicacy. How such 
a woman came to be in the extraordinary position in which she was 
placed, was of course as much a mystery to her as to ail others; 
though, like every one else who knew aught of the case, she in- 
dulged in conjectures of her own on the subject. Being of a par- 
ticularly natural and frank disposition, without a particle of any 
ungenerous or detracting quality, and filled with woman’s kindness 
in her very soul, this noble-minded young woman began now to 
feel far more than an idle curiosity in behalf of her who had so 
lately caused herself so much pain, not to say bitterness of anguish. 
All was forgotten in pity for the miserable condition of the uncon- 
scious offender; unconscious, for Anna was sufficiently clear-sighted 
and just to see and to admit that, it John had been led astray by 
the charms and sufferings of this stranger, the fact could not right- 
fully be imputed to the last, as a fault. Every statement of John’s 
went to confirm this act of justice to the stranger. 

Then, the unaccountable silence of Marie Moulin doubled the 
mystery and greatly increased the interest of the whole affair. This 
woman had gone to Biberry pledged to communicate to Sarah all 
she knew or might learn, touching the accused; and well did Anna 
know that her friend would make her the repository of her own in- 
formation, on this as well as on other subjects; but a most unac- 
countable silence governed the course of the domestic, as well as 
that Of her strange mistress. It really seemed that, in passing the 
principal door of the jail, Marie Moulin had buried herself in a con- 
vent, where all communication with the outer world was forbidden. 
Three several letters from Sarah had John handed in at the grate, 
certain that they must have reached the hands of the Swiss; but no 
answer had been received. All attempts to speak to Marie were 
quietly, but most ingeniously evaded, by the tact and readiness of 
the prisoner; and the hope of obtaining information from that 
source was abandoned by Sarah, who was too proud to solicit a 
servant for that which the last was reluctant to communicate. 
With Anna the feeling was different. She had no curiosity on the 
subject, separated from a most generous and womanly concern in 
&he prisoner’s forlorn state; and she thought far less of Marie 


130 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


Moulin ’s disrespect and forgetfulness of her word, than of Mary 
Monson’s desolation and approaching trial. 


CHAPTER XU1. 

Was it for this we sent out 
Liberty’s cry from our shore? 

Was it for this that her shout 
Thrill’d to the world’s very core? 

Moore's National Airs. 

The third day after the interviews just related, the whole party 
left Rattletrap for Timbully, where their arrival was expected by 
the bride and bridegroom, if such terms can be applied to a woman 
of forty-five and a man of sixty. The Dukes County circuit and 
oyer and terminer were about to be held, and it was believed that 
Mary Monson was to be tried. By this time so lively an interest 
prevailed among the ladies of the McBrain and Dunscomb connec- 
tions in behalf of the accused, that they had all come to a determi- 
nation to be present in court. Curiosity was not so much at the 
bottom of this movement as womanly kindness and sympathy. 
There seemed a bitterness of misery in the condition of Mary Mon- 
son, that appealed directly to the heart; and that silent but eloquent 
appeal was answered, as has just been stated, generously and with 
warmth by the whole party from town. With Anna Updyke the 
feeling went materially further than with any of her friends. Strange 
as it may seem, her interest in John increased that which she felt 
for his mysterious client; and her feelings became enlisted in the 
stranger’s behalf, so much the more, in consequence of this triangu- 
lar sort of passion. 

The morning of the day on which the party crossed the country 
from Rattletrap to Timbully, Timms arrived at the latter place. 
He was expected, and was soon after closeted with the senior coun- 
sel in the pending and most important cause. 

M Does the district attorney intend to move for the trial?” de- 
manded Dunscomb, the instant the two were alone. 

“ He tells me he does, sir; and that early in the week, too. It is 
my opinion we should go for postponement. We are hardly ready, 
while the State is too much so.” 

“1 do not comprehend this, Timms. The law officers of the 
public would hardly undertake to run down a victim, and she a 
soltiary and unprotected woman!” 

“ That’s not it. The law officers of the State don’t care a straw 
whether Mary Monson is found guilty or is acquitted. That is, 
they care nothing about it at present. The case may be different 
when they are warmed up by a trial and opposition. Our danger 
comes from Jesse Davis, who is a nephew of Peter Goodwin, his 
next of kin and heir, and who thinks a great deal of money was 
hoarded by the old people; much more than the stocking ever held 
or could hold, and who has taken it into his wise head that the 
prisoner has laid hands on this treasume, and is carrying on her de- 
fense with his cash. This has roused him completely, and he has 
retained two of the sharpest counsel on our circuit, who are begin- 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


13 i 


uing to work as if tlie bargain lias been clinched in the hard metal. 
Williams has given me a great deal of trouble already. 1 know 
him; he will not work without pay; but pay him liberally, and he 
is up to anything.” 

“ Ay, you are diamond cut diamond, Timms— outsiders in the 
profession. You understand that 1 work only in the open court, 
and will know nothing of this out-door management.” 

“ We do not mean to let you know anything about it, squire,” re- 
turned Timms, dryly. “ Each man to his own manner of getting 
along. 1 ought to tell you, however, it has got out that you are 
working without a fee, while 1 am paid in the most liberal man- 
ner.” 

“ 1 am sorry for that. There is no great harm in the thing itself; 
but 1 dislike the parade of seeming to be unusually generous. 1 do 
not remember to have spoken of this circumstance where it would 
be likely to be repeated; and I beg you will be equally discreet.” 

“ The fact has not come from me, I can assure you, sir. It puts 
me in too awkward a position to delight me; and 1 make it a point 
to say as little as possible of what is disagreeable. 1 do not relish 
the idea of being thought selfish by my future constituents. Gin- 
iros’ty is my cue before them. But they say you work for love, 
sir.” 

“Love!” answered Dunscomb, quickly — “Love of what?— or 
of whom?” 

“Of your client — that’s the story now. It is said that you ad- 
mire Miss Monson; that she is young, and handsome, and rich; and 
she is to marry you, it acquitted. If found guilty and hanged, the 
bargain is off, of course. You may look displeased, squire; but I 
give you my word such is the rumor.” 

Dunscomb was extremely vexed; but he was too proud to make 
any answer. He knew that he had done that which, among the 
mass of this nation, is a very capital mistake, in not placing before 
its observation an intelligible motive — one on the level of the popular 
mind— to prevent these freaks of the fancy dealing with his affairs. 
It is true, lhat the natural supposition would be that he worked for 
his fee, as did Timms, had not the contrary got out; when he be- 
came subject to all the crude conjectures of those who ever look for 
the worst motives for everything. Had he been what is termed a 
favorite public servant, the very "reverse would have been the case, 
and there was little that he might not have done with impunity ; 
but, having no such claims on the minds of the mass, he came un- 
der’ the common law which somewhat distinguishes their control. 
Too much disgusted, however, to continue this branch of the sub- 
ject, the worthy counselor at once adverted to another. 

“Have you looked over the list of the jurors, Timms?” he de- 
manded, continuing to sort his papers. 

“ That 1 never fail to do, sir, the first thing. It’s my brief, you 
know, Squire Dunscomb. All safe York law, nowadays, is to be 
found in that learned body; especially in criminal cases. There is 
but one sort of suit in which the jury counts for nothing, and might 
as well be dispensed with.” 

“ Which is—?” 

“ An ejectment cause. It’s not one time in ten that they under- 


132 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUK. 

stand anything about the matter, or care anything about it; and the 
court usually leads in those actions— but our Dukes county juries 
are beginning to understand their powers in all others.” 

“ What do you make of the list?” 

“ It’s what I call reasonable, squire. There are two men on it 
who would not hang Cain, where he indicted for the murder of 
Abel.” 

“ Quakers, of course?” 

” ITot they. The time was when we were reduced to the ‘ thee’s* 
and the ‘ thou’s 5 for this sort of support; but philanthropy is 
abroad, sir, covering the land. Talk of the schoolmaster! Why, 
squire, a new philanthropical idee will go two feet to the school- 
master’s one. Pro-nigger, anti-gallows, eternal peace, woman’s 
rights, the people’s power, and anything of that sort sweeps like a. 
tornado through the land. Get a juror who has just come into the 
anti-gallows notion, and I would defy the State to hang a body- 
snatcher who lived by murdering his subjects.” 

” And you count on two of these partisans for our case?” 

“ Lord* no, sir. 1 he district attorney himself knows them both; 
and Davis’s counsel have been studying that list for the last week, 
as if it were Blackstone in the hands of a new beginner. I can tell 
you, Squire Dunscomb, that the jury-list is a most important part 
of a case out here in the country!” 

"i am much afraid it is, Timms; though 1 never examined one 
in my life.” 

*‘ X can believe you, sir, from what I have seen of your practice. 
But principles and facts won’t answer in an age of the world when 
men are ruled by talk and prejudice. There is not a case of any 
magnitude tried, nowadays, without paying proper attention to 
the jury. We are pretty well off, on the whole; and I am tolerably 
sanguine of a disagreement, though 1 fear an acquittal is quite out 
of the question.” 

“ You rely on one or two particularly intelligent and disinterested 
men, ha! Timms?” 

“ 1 rely on five or six particularly ignorant and heated partisans, 
on Ihe contrary; men who have been reading about the abolishing 
of capital punishments, and who, in gin’ral, because they’ve got. 
hold of some notions that have been worn out as far back as the 
times of the Caesars, fancy themselves philosophers and the children 
of progress. The country is getting to be full of what I call donkeys 
and racers; the donkey is obstinate, and backs going up-hill; while 
the racers will not only break their own necks, but those of their 
riders too, unless they hold up long before they reach their goal.” 

“ I did not know, Timms, that you think so much on such sub- 
jects. To me, you have always appeared to be a purely working-man 
— no theorist.” 

” It is precisely because 1 am a man of action, and live in the 
world, and see things as they were meant to be seen, that 1 laugh at 
your theorists. Why, sir, this country, in my judgment, for the 
time being, could much better get along without preaching, than 
without hanging. I don’t say always; for there is no telling yet what 
is to be the upshot of preaching. It may turn out as many think; in 
which case human natpr ’ will , undergo a change that will pretty 


THE WAY^ OF THE HOUR. 133 

much destroy our business. Such a state of things would he worse 
for the bar, squire, than the Code, or the last fee-bill.” 

“ I’m not so- sure of that, Timms; there are lew things worse than 
this internal Code.” 

” Well, to my taste, the fee-hill is the most disagreeable of the 
two. A man can stand any sort of law, and any sort of practice; 
but he can’t stand any sort of pay. 1 hear the circuit is to be held 
by one of the new judges — a people’s man, altogether.” 

“ You mean by that, 1 suppose, Timms, one of those who did not 
hold office under the old system! it is said that the new broom 
sweeps clean — it is fortunate ours has not brushed away all the old 
incumbents.” 

“ No, that is to come; and come it will, as sure as the sun rises. 
We must have rotation on the bench, as well as in all other mat- 
ters. You see, squire, rotation is a sort of claim with many men, 
who have no other. They fancy the earth to have been created on 
a sort of Jim Crow principle, because it turns round.” 

“ That is it; and it explains the clamor that is made about it. But 
to return to this jury, Timms; on the whole, you like it, I should 
infer?” 

“ Not too well, by any means. There are six or eight names on 
the list that I’m always glad to see; for they belong to men who are 
friendly to me — ” 

“ Good God, man— it can not be possible that you count on such 
assistants in a trial fora human life!” 

“Not count on it, Squire Dunscomb! 1 count on it from an ac- 
tion of trespass on the case, to this indictment — count on it, quite as 
much, and a good deal more rationally, than you count on your law 
and evidence. Didn’t I carry that heavy case /or the railroad com- 
pany on that principle altogether? The law was dead against us 
they say, and the facts were against us; but the verdict was in our 
favor. That’s what I call practicing law!” 

“ Yes; 1 remember to have heard of that case, and it was always 
a wonder v ith the bar how you got along with it. Had it been a 
verdict against a corporation, no one would have thought anything 
of it— but to carry a bad case for a company, nowadays, is almost 
an unheard-of thing.” 

“ You are quite right, sir. 1 can beat any railroad in the State, 
with a jurv of a neighborhood, let the question or facts be what they 
may; hut, "in this instance, 1 beat the neighborhood, and all through 
the faith the jury had in me. It’s a blessed institution, this of the 
jury, Squire Dunscomb! no doubt it makes us the great, glorious, 
and tree people that w r e are!” 

“ If the bench continue to lose its influence as it has done, the 
next twenty years will see it a curse of the worst character. It is 
now little more than a popular cabal in all cases in the least calcu- 
lated to awaken popular feeling or prejudice.” 

“ There’s the rub in this capital case of. ours. Mary Monson has 
neglected popularity altogether; and she is likely to suffer for it.” 

“ Popularity!” exclaimed Dunscomb, in a tone of liorroU— “ and 
this in a matter of life and death! What are we coming to in the 
law, as well as in politics! No public man is to be found cf sufficient 
moral courage, or intellectual force, to stem this torrent; which is 


THE WAYS' OF THE HOUR. 


134 

sweeping away everything before it. But in what has our client 
failed, Timms?” 

“ In almost everything connected with this one great point; and 
what vexes me is her wonderful power of pleasing, which is com- 
pletely thiown away. Squire Dunscomb, I would carry this 
county for Free Sile or ag’in it, with that lady to back me, as a 
wife.” 

“ What, if she should refuse to resort to popular airs and 
graces?”. 

“ L mean, of curse, she aiding and abetting. 1 would give the 
world, now, could we get the judge into her company for half an 
hour. It would make a friend of him; and it is still something to 
have a friend in the judge in a criminal case.” 

“You may well say ‘ still, ’ Timms; how much longer it will be so, 
is another matter. Under the old system it would be hopeless to ex- 
pect so much complaisance in a judge; but 1 will not take it on my- 
self to say what a people’s judge will not do.” 

“ If I thought the thing could be managed, by George 1 would 
attempt it! The grand jurors visit the jails, and why not the judges? 
What do you think, sir, of an anonymous letter hinting to his honor 
that a visit to Mrs. Gott — who is an excellent creature in her way 
— might serve the ends of justice!” 

“ As 1 think of all underhanded movements and tricKery. No, 
no, Timms; you had better let our client remain unpopular, than 
undertake anything of this nature.” 

“ Perhaps you are right, sir. Unpopular she is, and will be as 
long as she pursues her^present course; whereas she might carry all 
classes of men with her. For my part, Squire Dunscomb, I’ve 
found this young lady” — here Timms paused, hemmed, and con- 
cluded by looking a little foolish— a character of countenance by no 
means common with one of his shrewdness and sagacity. 

“ So, so, Master Timms,” said the senior counsel, regarding the 
junior with a sort of sneer—” you are as agreat a fool as my nephew, 
Jack Wil meter; and have fallen in love with a pretty face, in spite 
of the grand jury and the gallows!” 

Timms gave a gulp, seemed to catch his breath, and regained 
enough of his self-command to be able to answer. 

t‘ I’m in hopes that Mr. Wilmeter will think better of this, sir,” 
he said, “ and turn his views to a quarter where they will be par- 
ticularly acceptable. It would hardly do for a young gentleman of 
his expectations to take a wife out of a jail.” 

“ Enough of this foolery, Timms, and come to the point. Your 
remarks about popularity may have some sense in them, if matters 
have been pushed too far in a contrary direction. Of what do you 
complain?” 

“ In the first place, she will not show herself at the windows; and 
that offends a great many persons, who think it proud and aristo- 
cratic in her not to act as other criminals act. Then, she has made 
a capital mistake with a leading reporter, who sent in his name, and 
desired an interview; which she declined granting. She will hear 
from that man, depend on it, sir.” 

“I shall look to him, then — for, though this class of men is fast 
putting the law under foot, it maybe made to turn on them, by one 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


135 


who understands it, and has the con rage to use it. I shall not allow 
the rights of Mary Monson to be invaded by such a fungus of let- 
ters.” * 

“ Fungus of letters! Ahem — if it was anybody but yourself, 
squire, that 1 was talking to, 1 might remind you that these fun- 
guses flourish on the dunghill of the common mind.” 

“No matter ; the law can be made to touch them, when in good 
hands; and mine have now some experience. Has this reporter re- 
sented the refusal of the prisoner to see him?” 

“He is squinting that way, arid has got himself sent to Biberry 
by two or three journals, to report the progress of the trial, 1 know 
the man; he is vindictive, impudent, and always uses his craft to 
indulge his resentments.” 

“ Ay, many of those gentry are up to that. Is it not surprising, 
Timms, that, in a country forever boasting of its freedom, men do 
not see how much abuse there is of a very important interest, in 
suffering these irresponsible tyrants to ride rough-sbod over the 
community?” 

“ Lord, squire, it is not with the reporters only that abuses are to 
be found. 1 was present, the other day, at a conversation between 
a judge and a great town lawyer, when the last deplored the state 
of the juries! ‘ What would you have?’ says his honor; ‘angels 
sent down from Heaven to fill the jury-boxes?’ Wall” — Timms 
never could get over the defects of his early associations — “ Waal, 
squire,” he continued, with a shrewd leer of the eyes, “ 1 thought a 
lew saints might be squeezed in between the lowest angel in Heaven 
and the average of our Dukes County panels. This is a great 
fashion of talking that is growing up among us to meet an objection 
Dy crying out, ‘ Men are not angels;’ as if some men are not better 
than others. ” 

“ The institutions clearly maintain that some men are better than 
others, Timms!” 

“ That’s news to me, 1 will own. 1 thought the institutions de- 
clared all men aliKe — that is, all white men; 1 know that the nig- 
gers are nonsuited.” 

“ They are unsuited, at least, according to the spirit of the insti- 
tutions. If all men are supposed to be alike, what use is there in 
the elections? Why not draw lots for office, as we draw lots for 
juries? Choice inters inequalities, or the practice is an absurdity. 
But, here comes McBrain, with a face so full of meaning, he must 
have something to tell, us.” 

Sure enough, the bridegroom-physician came into the room at that 
instant; and without circumlocution he. entered at once on the topic 
that was then uppermost in his mind. It was I he custom of the 
neighborhood to profit by the visits of this able practitioner to his 
country- pi ace, by calling on him for advice in such difficult cases as 
existed an j where in the vicinity of Timbully. Even his recent mar- 
Tiage did not entirely protect him from these appeals, which brought 
so little pecuniary advantage as to be gratuitous; and he had passed 
much of the last two days in making professional visits in a circle 
around his residence that included Biberrj r . Such were the means 
by which he had obtained the information that now escaped from 
him, as it might be, involuntarily. 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUK. 


136 

“ 1 have never known so excited a state of the public mind,” he 
cried, “ as now exists alt around Biberry, on the subject of your 
client, Tom, and this approaching trial. Go where 1 may, see whom 
I will, let the disease be as serious as possible, all, patients, parents, 
friends and nurses, commence business with asking me. what 1 think 
of Mary Monson, and of her guilt or innocence.” 

“ That’s because you are married, Ned” — Dunscomb coolly an- 
swered. “ Now, no one thinks of putting such a question to me. 1 
see lots of people, as well as yourself; but not a soul has asked me - 
whether I thought Mary Monson guilty or innocent.” 

“ Poll! you are her counsel, and no one could take the liberty. I 
dare say that even Mr. Timms, here, your associate, has never com- 
pared notes with you on that particular point.” 

Timms was clearly not quite himself; and he did not look as 
shrewd as he once would have done at such a remark. He kept in 
the background, aud was content to listen. 

“ 1 do suppose association with a brother in the law, and in a case 
of life and death, is something like matrimony, Dr. McBrain. A 
good deal must be taken for granted, and not a little on credit. As 
a man is bound to believe his wife the most excellent, virtuous, 
most amiable and best creature on earth, so is a counsel bound to 
consider his client innocent. The relation, in each case, is confiden- 
tial, however; and 1 shall not pry into your secrets, any more than 
- I shall betray one of my own.” 

“ I asked tor none, and wish none; but one may express surprise 
at the intense degree of excitement that prevails all through Dukes, 
and even in the adjacent counties.” 

“ The murder of a man and his wife in cold blood, accompanied 
by robbery and arson, are enough to arouse the community. In this 
particular case the feeling of interest is increased, 1 make no doubt, 
by the extraordinary character, as well as by the singular myster}^ - 
of the party accused. 1 have had many clients, Ned, but never one 
like this before; as you have had many wives, but no one so re- 
markable as the present Mrs. McBrain.” 

“ Your time will come yet, Master Dunscomb— recollect I have 
always prognosticated that.” 

“ You forget that 1 am approaching sixty. A man’s heart is as 
hard and dry as a bill in chancery at that age— but, I beg your 
pardon, Ned; you are an exception.” . . 

“1 certainly believe that a man can have affections, even at four 
score— and what is more, 1 believe that when the reason and judg- 
ment come in aid of the passions— ” 

Dunscomb laughed outright; nay, he even gave a little shout, his 
bachelor habits having rendered him more exuberant in manner 
than might otherwise have been the case. 

“ Passions!” he cried, rubbing his hands, and looking round for 
Timms, that he might have some one to share in what he regarded 
as a capital joke. “ The passions of a fellow of three-score! Ned, 
you do not flatter yourselt that you have been marrying the Widow 
Updyke in consequence of any passion you feel for her?” 

“ 1 do, indeed,” returned the doctor, with spirit; mustering reso- 
lution to carry the war into the enemy’s country. “ Let me tell 
you, Tom Dunscomb, that a warm-hearted fellow can love a woman 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


137 

dearly, long alter the age you have mentioned— that is, provided he 
has not let all feeling die within him, dor want of watering, a plant 
that is the most precious boon of a most gracious Providence.” 

“ Ay, ii he begin at twenty, and keep even pace with his beloved 
down the descent of time.” 

“ That may all be true; but, it it has been his misfortune to lose 
one partner, a second — ” 

“And a third, Ned. a third— why not foot the bill at once, as' 
they say in the market?” 

“ Well, a third, too, if circumstances make that demand on him. 
Anything is better than leaving the affections to stagnate lor want 
of cultivation.” 

“ Adam in Paradise, by Jove! But I’ll not reproach you again, 
since you have got so gentle and kind a creature, and one who is 
twenty years your junior — ”, 

“ Only eighteen, if you please, Mr. Dunscomb.” 

“ Now, I should be glad to Know whether you have added those 
two years to the bride’s age, or subtracted them from that of the 
bridegroom! 1 suppose the last, however, as a matter of course.” 

“ 1 do not well see how you can suppose any such thing, know- 
ing my age as well as you do. Mrs. McBiain is forty-two, an age 
when a woman can be as lovable as at nineteen — more so. if her ad- 
mirer happens to be a man of sense.” 

“And si&ty-two. Well, Ned, you are incorrigible; and, for the 
sake of the excellent woman who has consented to have you, I only 
hope this will be the last exhibition of your weakness. So they 
talk a good deal of Mary Monson, up and down the country, do 
they?” 

“ Of little else, 1 can assure you. X am sorry to say, the tide seems 
to be setting strongly against her.”" 

“ That is bad news; as few jurors, nowadays, are superior to such 
an influence. What is said, in particular, Dr. McBrain? In the 
way of facts, 1 mean?” 

“ One report is that the accused is full of money; and that a good 
deal of that which she is scattering broadcast has been seen by 
different persons, at different times, in the possession of. the de- 
ceased Mrs. Goodwin.” 

“ Let them retail the lie, far and near, squire, and we’ll turn it to 
good account,” said Timms, taking out his note book, and writing 
down what he had just heard. “ 1 have reason to think that every 
dollar Miss Monson has uttered since her confinement — ” 

“Imprisonment would be a better word, Mr. Timms,” inter- 
rupted the doctor. 

“ 1 see no great difference,” ieplied the literal attorney — “ but im- 
prisonment, if you prefer it. 1 have reason to think that every 
dollar Mary Monson has put in circulation since she entered the jail 
at Biberry, has come from either young Mr. Wilmeter or myself, in 
exchange for hundred- dollar notes — and, in one instance, for a note 
of five hundred dollars. She is well off, 1 can tell you, gentlemen; 
and if she is to be executed, her executor will have something to do 
when -all is over.” 

“You do not intend to allow her to be hanged, Timms?” de- 
manded McBfain, aghast. 


138 


THE WAYS OE THE HOUR. 


” Not it 1 can help it, doctor; and this lie about the money, when 
clearly disproved, will be of capital service to herr Let them circu- 
late it as much as they please, the rebound will be in proportion to 
the blow. The more they circulate that foolish rumor, the better 
it will be for our client when we come to trial.” 

“ I suppose you are right, Timms; though I could prefer plainer 
dealings. A cause in which you are employed, however, must have 
more or less of management.” 

“ Which is better, squire, than your law and evidence. But what 
else has Dr. McBrain to tell us?” 

“ Ihear that Peter Goodwin’s nephew, who it seems had some ex- 
pectations from the old people, is particularly savage, and leaves no 
stone unturned to get up a popular feeling against the accused.” 

” He had best beware,” said Dunscomb, his usually colorless but 
handsome face flushing as he spoke. “ I shall not trifle in a matter 
of this sort— ha! Timms?” 

“ Lord bless you, squire, Dukes County folks wouldn’t understand 
a denial of the privilege to say what ihey please in a case of this 
sort. They fancy this is liberty ; and 4 touch my honor, take your 
poker,’ is not more sensitive than the feelin’ of liberty in these parts. 
I’m afraid that not only this Joe Davis, but the reporters, will say 
just what they please; and Mary Monson’s rights will whistle for 
it. You will remember that our judge is not only a brand-new one, 
but he drew the two years’ term into the bargain. No, 1 think it 
will be wisest to let the law, and old principles, and the right, and * 
true liberty, quite alone; and to bow the knee to things as they are. 

A good deal is said about our fathers, and their wisdom, and 
patriotism, and sacrifices; but nobody dreams of doing as they did, 
or of reasoning as they reasoned. Life is made up, in reality, of these 
little matters in a corner; while the great principles strut about in 
buckram, for men to admire them, and talk about them. 1 do take 
considerable delight, Squire Dunscomb, in hearing you enlarge on a 
principle, whether it be in law, morals, or politics; but 1 should no 
more think of practising on ’em, than 1 should think of refusing a 
thousand dollar fee. ’ ’ 

“ Is that your price?” demanded McBrain, with curiosity. “ Do 
you work for as large a sum as that, in this case, Timms?” 

“ I’m paid, doctor; just as you was ” — the attorney never stuck at 
grammar—” just as you was for that great operation on the Wall 
Street Mi denary ’ian — ” 

‘‘Millionaire, you mean, Timms,” said Dunscomb, coolly— ” it 
means one worth a million.” 

‘M never attempt a foreign tongue but 1 stumble,” said the at- 
torney, simply; for he knew that both his friends were familiar with 
his origin, education, and advancement in life, and that it was wisest 
to deny nothing to them; “but since 1 have been so much with 
Mary Monson and her woman, 1 do own a desire to speak the lan- 
guage they use.” 

Again Dunscomb regarded his associate intently; something 
comical gleaming in liis eye. 

“ Timms, you have fallen in love with your handsome client,” he 
quietly remarked. 

“ No, sir; not quite as bad as that, -yet; though 1 will acknowl- 


THE WATS OF THE HOUR. 


139 


edge that the lady is very interesting. Should she be acquitted, and 
could we only get some knowledge of her early history— why, that 
might put a new face on matters.” 

“1 must drive over to Biberry in the morning, and have another 
interview with the lady myself. And now, Ned, I will join your 
wife, and read an epithalamium prepared for this great occasion. 
You need not trouble yourself to follow, the song being no novelty; 
for 1 have read it twice before on your account.” 

A hearty laugh at his own wit concluded the discourse on the' 
part ot the great York counsellor; though Timms remained some 
time longer with the doctor, questioning the latter touching opinions 
and tacts gleaned by the physician in the course of his circuit. 


CHAPTER X1Y. 

From his brimstone bed at break of day, 

A-walking the devil is gone, 

To visit his little snug farm of the earth, 

And see how his stock went on. 

Coleridge. 

Dunscomb was as good as his word. Next morning he was on 
his way to Biberry. He was thoughtful; had laid a bundle of 
papers on the f ront^seauof the carriage, and went his way musing and 
silent. Singularly'enough, his only companion was Anna Updyke, 
who had asked a seat in the carriage timidly, but with an earnest- 
ness that prevailed. Had Jack Wilmeter been at Biberry, this re- 
quest would not have been made; but she knew he was in town, and 
that she might make the little excursion without the imputation of 
indelicacy, so far as* he was concerned. Her object will appear in 
the course of the narrative. 

The “ best tavern ” in Biberry was kept by Daniel Horton. The 
wife of this good man had a native propensity to talk that had been 
essentially cultivated in the course of five-and-twenty years’ prac- 
tice in the inn where she had commenced her career as maid; and 
was now finishing it as mistress. As is common with persons of her 
class, she knew hundreds of those who frequented her house; calling 
each readily by name, and treating every one with a certain degree 
of professional familiarity that isTar from uncommon in country 
inns. 

“ Mr. Dunscomb, 1 declare!” cried this woman, as she entered the 
room and found the counsellor and his com panion in possession of 
her best parlor. “ This is a pleasure I did not expect until the 
circuit. It’s quite twenty years, squire, since I had the pleasure ot 
first waiting on you in this house. And a pleasure it has always 
been; for I’ve not forgotten the ejectment suit that you carried for 
Horton when we was only new beginners. 1 am glad to see you, 
sir; welcome to Biberry, as is this young lady, who is your daugh- 
ter, I presume, Mr. Dunscomb.” 

“You forget that 1 am a bachelor, Mrs. Hoi ton— no marrying 
man, in any sense of the word.” 

“ 1 might have known that, had 1 reflected a moment; for they 
6ay Mary Monson employs none but bachelors and widowers in her 
case; and you are her counsel, 1 know.” 


140 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR* 


“ This is a peculiarity of which 1 was not aware. Timms is a 
bachelor, certainly, as well as myself; but to whom else can you 
allude? Jack Wilmeter, my nephew, can hardly be said to be em- 
ployed at all; nor, for that matter, Michael Millington; though 
neither is married.” 

“ Yes, sir; we know both of the last well, they having lodged 
with us. If young Mr. Wilmeter is single, 1 fancy it is not his own 
fault ” — here Mrs. Horton looked very wise, but ‘continued talking 
— “ Young gentlemen of a good appearance and handsome fortunes 
commonly have not much difficulty in getting wives — not as much 
as young ladies; for you men make the law, and you give your own 
sex the best chance, almost as a matter of course — ” 

‘‘Pardon me, Mrs. Horton,” interrupted Dunscomb, a little 
formally, like one wiio felt great interest in the subject — ‘‘you 
were remarking that we have the best chance of getting married; 
and here have 1 been a bachelor all my life, trying in vain to enter 
into the happy state of matrimony — it, indeed, it deserve to be so 
termed.” 

“ It could not be very difficult for you to find a companion,” said 
the landlady, shaking her head; “ and for the reason 1 have just 
given,, 5 ’ 

' “ Which was — ?” 

, “ That you men have made the laws and profit by them. You 
can ask whom you pleasfe; hut a woman is obliged to wait to be 
asked.” 

“ You never were in a greater mistake in your life, 1 do assure 
you, my good Mrs. Horton. There is no such law on the subject. 
Any woman may put the question, as well as any man. This was 
the law, and 1 don’t think the Code has changed it.” 

“Yes, 1 know that well enough— and get laughed at, and pointed 
at, for her pains. I know that a good deal is said about leap-year; 
but who ever heard of a woman’s putting the question? 1 fancy 
that hven Mary Monson would think twice before she took so bold 
a step once.” 

“ Mary Monson!” exclaimed Dunscomb, suddenly turning toward 
his hostess — “Has she a reputation for being attentive to gentle- 
men?” 

“ Not that I know of; but — ” 

“ Then allow me to say, my good Mrs. Horton,” interrupted the 
celebrated counselor, with a manner that was almost austere, “ that 
you have been greatly to blame in hazarding the sort of remark you 
did. If you know nothing of the character you certainly insinuated, 
you should have said nothing. It is very extraordinary that women, 
alive as they must be to the consequences to one of their own sex, 
are ever more ready than men to throw out careless, and frequently 
malicious hints, that take aw T ay a repul ation, and do a melancholy 
amount of harm in the world. Slander is the least respectable, the 
most unchristian-like, and the most unlady-like vice, of all the 
secondary sins of your sex. One would think the danger you are 
all exposed to in common, would teach you greater caution.” 

“ Yes, sir, that is true; but this Mary Monson is in such a pickle 
already, that it is not easy to make her case much worse,” answered 
Mrs. Horton, a good deal frightened at the austerity of Dunscomb’s 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


141 


Tebuke; for his reputation was too high to render his good or bad 
opinion a matter of indifference to her. “ If you only knew the 
half that is said of her in Dukes you wouldn’t mind a careless word 
or so about her. Everybody thinks her guilty; and a crime, more 
or less, can be of no great matter to the likes of her.'* 

“ Ah, Mrs. Horton, these careless words do a vast deal of harm. 
They insinuate away a reputation in a breath; and my experience 
has taught me that they who are the most apt to use them are per* 
sons whose own conduct will least bear the light. Women with a 
whole log-heap of beams in their own eyes, are remarkable for dis- 
covering motes. Give me the female who floats along quietly in 
her sphere, unoffending and charitable, wishing for the best, and as 
difficult to be brought to think as to do evil. But they talk a good, 
deal against my client, do they?” 

“ More than I have ever known folks talk against any indicted 
person, man or woman. The prize-fighters, who were in for mur- 
der, had a pretty hard time of it; but nothing to Mary Monson’s, 
In short, until Squire Timms came out in her favor, she had no 
chance at all.” 

“ This is not very encouraging, certainly — but what is said, Mrs. 
Horton, if you will suffer me to put the question?” 

“ Why, Squire Dunscomb,” answered the woman, pursing up a 
very pretty American mouth of her own, “ a body is never sure that 
you won’t call what she says slander — ” 

‘‘Poh— -poh — you know me better than that. I never meddle 
with that vile class of suits. 1 am employed to defend Mary Mon- 
son, you know — ” 

‘ £ Yes, and are well paid for it too, Squire Dunscomb, if all that 
a body hears is true,” interrupted Mrs. Horton, a little spitefully. 
“ Five thousand dollars, they say, to a cent!” 

Dunscomb, who was working literally without other reward than 
the consciousness of doing his duty, smiled, while he frowned at 
this fresh instance of the absurdities into which rumor can lead its 
votaries. Bowing a little apology, he coolly lighted a cigar, and 
proceeded. 

“ Where is it supposed that Mary Monson can find such large 
sums to bestow, Mrs. Horton?” he quietly asked, when his cigar 
was properly lighted. ‘‘It is not usual for young and friendless 
women to have" pockets so well lined.” 

“ Nor is it usual for young women to rob and murder old ones, 
squire.” 

‘‘Was Mrs. Goodwin’s stocking thought to De large enough to 
hold sums like that you have mentioned?” 

“ Nobody knows. Gold takes but little room, as witness Cali- 
forny. There was General Wilton— every one thought him rich, as 
Caesar — ” 

“ Do you not mean Croesus, Mrs. Horton?” 

‘‘Well. Caesar or Croesus; both were rich, I do suppose, and 
General Wilton was thought the equal of either; but, when he died, 
his estate wouldn’t pay his debts. On the other hand, old Davy 
Davidson was set down by nobody at more than twenty thousand, 
and he left ten times that much money. So I say nobody knows. 
Mrs. Goodwin was always a saving woman, though Peter would 


142 THE WAYS OF THE HOUK. 

make tlie dollars fly, it lie could get at them. There was certainly 
a weak spot in Peier, though known to but' a very few.” 

Dunscomb now listened attentively. Every fact of this nature 
was of importance just then; and nothing could be said of the 
murdered couple that would not induce all engaged iu the cause to 
prick up their ears. 

“ 1 have always understood that Peter Goodwin was a very 
respectable sort of a man;” observed Dunscomb, with a profound 
knowledge of human nature, which was far more likely to induce 
the woman to be communicative, in the way of opposition than by 
any other process — 44 as respectable a man as any about here.” 

‘ 4 So he might be, but he had his weak points as. well as other re- 
spectable men; though, as 1 have said already, his’n wasn’t generally 
known. Everybody is respectable, 1 suppose, until they’re found 
out. But Peter is dead and gone, and 1 have no wish to disturb bi& 
grave, which 1 believe to be a sinful act.” 

This sounded still more ominously, and it greatly increased Duns- 
comb’s desire to learn more. Still he saw that great caution must 
be used, Mrs. Horton choosing to affect much tenderness tor her 
deceased neighbor’s character. The counselor knew human nature 
well enough to be aware that indifference was sometimes as good a 
stimulant as opposition; and he now thought it expedient to try the 
virtue of that quality. Without making any immediate answer, 
therefore, he desired the attentive and anxious Anna Updyke to 
perform some little office for him; thus managing to get her out of 
the room, while the hostess stayed behind. Then his cigar did not 
quite suit him, and he tried another, making divers little delays that 
set the landlady on the tenter-hooks of impatience. 

44 Yes, Peter is gone— dead and buried— and 1 hope the sod lies 
lightly on his remains!” she said, sighing ostentatiously. 

44 Therein you are mistaken, Mrs. Horton,” the counselor coolly 
remarked — 44 the remains of neither of those found in the ruins of 
the house are under ground yet; but are kept for the trial.” 

44 What a time we shall have of it!— so exciting and full of mys- 
tery!” 

44 And you might add 4 custom,’ Mrs. Horton. The reporters 
alone, who will certainly come from town like an inroad of Cos- 
sacks, will fill your house.” 

44 Yes, and themselves too. To be honest with you, Squire 
Dunscomb, too many of those gentry wish to be kept for nothing 
to make them pleasant boarders. 1 dare say, however, we shall be 
full enough next 'week. 1 sometimes wish there was ho such thing 
as justice, after a hard-working Oyer and Terminer court.” 

44 You should be under no concern, my good Mrs. Horton, on that 
subject. There is really so little of the thing you have mentioned 
that no reasonable woman need make herself unhappy about it. So 
Peter Goodwin was a faultless man, was he?” 

44 As far from it as possible, if the truth was said of him; ana 
seeing the man is not absolutely under ground, 1 do not know why 
it may not be told. 1 can respect the grave, as well as another; but, 
as he is not buried, one may tell the truth. Peter Goodwin was, by 
no means, the man he seemed to be.” 

44 In what particular did he fail, my good Mrs. Horton?” 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


143 


To b egood in Dunscomb’s eyes, the landlady well knew, was a 
great honor; and she was flattered as much by the manner in which 
the words Were uttered, as by their import. Woman-like, Mrs. 
Horton was overcome by this little bit of homage; and she felt dis- 
posed to give up a secret which, to do her justice, had been re- 
ligiously kept now for some ten or twelve years between herself and 
her husband. As she and the counsel were alone, dropping her 
voice a little, more for the sake of appearances than for any suffi- 
cient reason, the landlady proceeded. 

“ Why, you must know, Squire Dunseomb, that Peter Goodwin 
was a member of meetin’, and a professing Christian, which 1 sup- 
pose was all the better for him, seeiug that he was to be murdered.” 

“ And do you consider his being a ‘ professing Christian,’ as you 
call it, a circumstance to be concealed?” 

“ Not at all, sir— but 1 consider it a good reason why the facts 1 
am about to tell you, ought not to be generally known. Scoffers 
abound; and 1 take it that the feelings of a believer ought to be 
treated more tenderly than those of an unbeliever, for the church’s 
sake.” 

“ That is a fashion of the times too— one of the ways of the hour, 
whether it is to last or not. But, proceed if you please, my good 
Mrs. Horton; I am quite curious to know by what particular sin 
Satan managed to overcome this 4 professing Christian ’ 

‘‘He drank. Squire Dunseomb — no, he gy,zzLed t for that is the 
best word. You must know that Dolly was avai ice itself— that’s 
the reason she took tnis Mary Monson in to board, though her house 
was no ways suited tor boarders, standing out of the way, with only 
one small spare bedroom, and that under the root. Had she let this 
stranger woman come to one of the regular houses, as she might 
have done, and been far better accommodated than it was possible 
for her to be in a gai ret, it is not likely she would have been mur- 
dered. She lost her life, as 1 tell Horton, for meddling with other 
people’s business. ’ ’ 

‘‘If such were the regular and inevitable punishment of that par- 
ticular offense, my good landlady, there would be a great dearth of 
ladies,” said Tom Dunseomb, a little dryly — “ but, you were re- 
marking that Peter Goodwin, the member of meeting, and Mary 
Monson ’s supposed victim, had a weakness in favor of strong 
liquor?” . 

‘‘Juleps were his choice— I’ve heard of a part of the country, 
somewhere about Yirginny l believe it is, where teetotalers make 
an exception in favor of juleps— it may do there, Squire Dunseomb, 
but it won’t do here. No liquor undoes a body, in this part of the 
country, sooner than mint juleps. I will find you ten constitutions 
that can hold out ag’in brandy, or plain grog, or even grog, beer 
and cider, all three together, where you can find me one that will 
hold out ag’in juleps. 1 always set down a reg’lar julep fancier as 
a case — that is, in this part of the country.” 

‘‘Very true, my good landlady, and very sensible and just. 
1 consider you a sensible and just woman, whose mind has been en- 
larged by an extensive acquaintance with human nature — ” 

44 A body does pick up a good deal in and around a bar, Squire 
Dunseomb!” 


144 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 

“ Pick up, indeed — I’ve known ’em picked up by the dozen my- 
self. And Peter would take the juleps?” 

' ‘ Awfully fond of them ! He no more dared to take one at home*, 
however, than he dared to go and ask Minister W atch to make him 
one. No, he know’d better where the right sort of article was to be 
had, and always came down to our house when he was dry. Hor- 
ton mixes stiff, or we should have been a good deal better off in the 
world than we are— not that we’re mis’rable, as it is. But Horton 
takes it strong himself, and he mixes strong for others. Peter soon 
found this out, and he fancied his juleps more, as he has often told 
me himself, than the juleps of the great Bowery-man, who has a 
name for ’em, far and near. Horton can mix a julep, it he can do 
nothing else. ” 

“ And Peter Goodwin was in the habit of frequenting your house 
' privately, to indulge this propensity?” 

“ I’m almost ashamed to own that he did— perhaps it was sinful 
in us to let him; but a body must carry out the idee of trade — our 
trade is tavern -keeping, and it’s our business to mix liquors, though 
Minister Watch says, almost every Sabbath, that professors should 
do nothing out of sight that they wouldn’t do before the whole con- 
gregation. 1 don't hold to that, however, for it would soon break 
up tavern-keeping altogether. Yes, Peter did drink awfully, in a 
corner.” 

“ To intoxication, do you mean, Mrs. Horton?” 

“ To delirrum Iremus, sir— yes, full up to that. His way was to 
come down to the village on the pretense of business, and to come 
right to our house, where I’ve known him to take three juleps in 
the first half-hour. Sometimes he’d pretend to go to town to see his 
sister, when he would stay two or three days upstairs in a room 
that Horton keeps for what he calls his cases — he has given the room 
the name of his ward— hospital- ward he means.” 

“ Is the worthy Mr. Horton a member of the meeting also, my 
good landlady?” 

Mrs. Horton had the grace to color; but she answered without 
stammering, habit fortifying us in moral discrepancies much more 
serious than even this. 

“ He was, and 1 don’t know but I may say he is yet; though he 
hasn’t attended, now, for more than two years. The question got 
to be between meetin’ and the bar; and the bar carried the day, so 
far as Horton is concerned. I’ve held’ out better, 1 hope, aDd ex- 
pect to gain a victory. It’s quite enough to have one backslider in 
a family, I tell my husband, squire.” 

” A sufficient supply, ma’am— quite a sufficiency. "So Peter Good- 
win lay in your house drunk, days at a time?” 

” I’m sorry to say he did. He was here a week once, with delir- 
rum tremus on him ; but Horton carried him through by the use of 
juleps; for that’s the time to take ’em, everybbdy says ; and we got 
him home without old Holly’s knowing that he hadn’t been with his 
sister that whole time. The turn satisfied Peter for three good 
months.” 

” Did Peter pay as he went, or did you keep a score?” 

“ Ready money, sir. Catch us keeping an account with a man 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR, 14 & 

when his ^ife ruled the roast! No, Peter paid like a king, for 
every mouthful he swallowed.” 

“ 1 am far from certain that the comparison is a good one, kings 
being in no degree remarkable for paying their debts. But, is it not 
possible that Peter may have set his own house on fire, and thus 
have caused all this calamity, for which my client is held responsi- 
ble?” 

‘‘I’ve thought that over a good deal since the murder, squire, 
but don’t well see bow it can be made out. Setting the building on 
fire is simple enough ; but who killed the old couple, and who robbed 
the house, unless this Mary Monson did both?” 

“ The case has its difficulties, no doubt; but 1 have known the 
day to dawn after a darker night than this, I believe that Mrs. 
Goodwin and her husband were veiy nearly of the same height?” 

“ Exactly; I’ve see them measure, back to back. He was a very 
short man, and she a very tall woman!” 

“ Do you know anything of a German female who is said to have 
lived with the unfortunate couple?” 

‘‘ There has been some talk of such a person since the fire; but 
Dolly Goodwin kept no help. She was too stingy for that; then she 
had no need of it, being very strong and stirring for her time of 
life.” 

“ Might not a boarder, like Miss Monson, have induced her to 
take this foreigner into her family for a few weeks? The nearest 
neighbors, those who would be most likely to know all about it, say 
that no wages Were given, the woman working for her food and 
lodging.” 

“ Squire Dunscomb, you’ll never make it out that any German 
killed Peter and his wife.” 

“ Perhaps not; though even that is possible. Such, however, is 
not the object of my present inquiries— but, here comes my associate 
counsel, and 1 will take another occasion to continue this conver- 
sation, my good Mrs. Horton.” 

Timms entered with a hurried air. For the first time in his life 
he appeared to his associate and old master to be agitated. Cold, 
calculating, and cunning, this man seldom permitted himself to be 
so much thrown off his guard as to betray emotion; but now he 
actually did. There was a tremor in his form that extended to his. 
Voice; and he seemed afraid to trust the latter even in the customary 
salutations. Nodding his head, he drew a chair and took his seat.* 

‘‘You have been to the jail?” asked Dunscomb. 

A nod was the answer. 

“ You were admitted, and had an interview with our client?” 

Nod the third was the only reply. 

“ Did you put the questions to her, as 1 desired?” 

“1 did, sir; but 1 would sooner cross-examine all Dukes, than 
undertake to get anything she does not wish to tell, out ol that one 
young lady!” 

‘‘ 1 fancy most young ladies have a faculty for keeping such mat- 
ters to themselves as they do not wish to reveal. Am X to under- 
stand that you got no answers?” 

“ I really do not know, squire. She was polite, and obliging, and 
smiling — but, somehow or other, I do not recollect her replies.” 


146 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


“ You must be falling in love, Timms, to return with such an ac- 
count,” retorted Dunscomb, a cold bqt very sarcastic smile passing 
over his face. “ Have a care, sir; ’tis a passion that makes a fool of 
a- man sooner than any other. 1 do not think there is much danger 
of the lady’s returning your flame; unless, indeed, you can manage 
to make her acquittal a condition of the match.” 

‘‘Iam afraid— dreadfully afraid, her acquittal will be a very des- 
perate affair,” answered Timms, passing his hands down his face, 
as if to wipe away his weakness. “ The deeper 1 get into the mat- 
ter, the worse it appears!” 

“ Have you given our client any intimation to this effect?” 

“ 1 hadn’t the heart to do it. She is just as composed, and calm, 
and tranquil, and judicious— yes, and ingenious, as if she were only 
the counsel in this affair of life and death! I couldn’t distrust so 
much tranquillity. 1 wish I kne tv her history!” 

“ My interrogatories pointed out the absolute necessity of her fur- 
bishing us with the means of enlightening the court and jury on that 
most material point, should the worst come to the worst.” 

“ I know they did, sir; but they no more got at the truth than my 
own pressing questions. I should like to see that lady on the stand, 
above all things! i think she would bother saucy Williams, and 
fairly put him out of countenance. By the way, sir, 1 hear he is 
employed against us by the nephew, who is quite furious about the 
loss of the money, which he pretends was a much larger sum than 
the neighborhood has commonly supposed.” 

“ 1 have always thought the relations would employ some one to 
assist the public prosecutor in a case of this magnitude. The theory 
of our government is that the public virtue will see the laws ex- 
ecuted, but in miy experience, Timms, this public virtue is a very 
acquiescent and indifferent quality, seldom troubling itself even to 
abate a nuisance, until its own nose is offended, or its own pocket 
damaged.” 

“ Roguery is always more active than honesty— 1 found that out 
long since, squire. But, it is nat’ral for a public prosecutor not to 
press one on trial for life, and the accused a woman, closer than 
circumstances seem to demand. It is true, that popular feeling is 
strong ag’in Maiy Monson; but it was well in the nephew to fee 
such a bull-dog as Williams, if he wishes to make a clean sweep 
of it.” 

“ Does our client know this?” 

“Certainly; she seems to know all about her case, and has a 
strange pleasure in entering into the mode and manner of her de- 
fense7 It would do your heart good, sir, to see the manner in which 
she listens, and advises, aDd consults. She’s wonderful handsome 
at such times!” 

“You are in love, Timms; and I shall have to engage some other 
assistant. First -Jack, and then you! Umph! This is a strange 
world, of a verity.” 

“ 1 don’t think it’s quite as bad with me as that,” said Timms, 
this time rubbing his shaggy eyebrows as if to ascertain whether or 
not he were dreaming, “ though 1 must own 1 do not feei precisely 
as 1 did a month since. 1 wish you would see our client yourself. 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 14 ? 

sir, and make her -understand how important it is to her interest that 
we should know something of her past history.” 

“ Do you think her name is rightfully set forth in the indict- 
ment?” 

“ By no means— but, as she has called herself Mary Monson, she 
can not avail herself of her own acts.” 

“ Certainly not — 1 asked merely as a matter of information. She 
must be made to feel the necessity of fortifying us on that particu- 
lar point, else it will go far toward convicting her. Jurors do not 
like aliases.” 

“ She knows this already; for 1 have laid the matter before her, 
again and again. Nothing seems to move her, however; and as to- 
apprehension, she appears to be above all fear.” 

“ This is most extraordinary ! Have you interrogated the maid?” 

“ Hew can 1? She speaks no English; and 1 can’t utter a syllable 
in any foreign tongue.” 

“ Ha! Does sbe pretend to that much ignorance? Marie Moulin 
speaks very intelligible English, as 1 know from having conversed 
with her often. She is a clever, prudent Swiss, from one of the 
Frencl\ cantons, and is known for her fidelity and trustworthiness. 
With me she will hardly venture to practice this deception. If she 
has feigned ignorance of English, it was in order to keep her secrets.” 

Timms admitted the probability of its being so; then he entered 
into a longer and more minute detail of the state oi the case. In the 
first place, he admitted that, iu spite of all his own efforts to ttie 
contrary, the popular feeling was setting strong against their client. 
“ Frank Williams,” as he called the saucy person who bore that 
name, had entered into the struggle might and main, and was mak- 
ing his customary impressions. 

‘‘His fees must be liberal,” continued Timms, “and 1 should 
think are in some way dependent on the result; for 1 never saw the 
fellow more engaged in my life.” 

“ This precious Code does allow such a bargain to be made be- 
tween the counsel and his client, or any other bargain that is not 
downright conspiracy,” returned Dunscomb; “ but 1 do not see 
what is to be shared, even should Mary Monson be hanged.” 

“ Do not speak in that manner of so agreeable a person,” cried 
Timms, actually manifesting emotion — “it is unpleasant to think 
of. It is true, a conviction will not bring money to the prosecution, 
unless it should bring to light some of Mrs. Goodwin’s hoards.” 

Dunscomb shrugged his shoulders, and his associate proceeded 
with his narrative. Two of the reporters were offended, and their 
allusions to the cause, which were almost daily in their respective 
journals, were ill-natured, and calculated to do great harm, though 
so far covered as to wear an air of seeming candor. The natural 
effect of this “ constant dropping,” in a community accustomed to 
refer everything #o the common mind, had been “ to wear away the 
stone.” Many of those who, at first, had been disposed to sustain 
the accused, unwilling to believe that one so young, so educated, so 
modest in deportment, se engaging in manners, and of the gentler 
sex, could possibly be guilty ot the crimes imputed, were no tv 
changing their opinions, under the control of this potent and sinis- 
ter mode of working on the public sentiment. The agents em- 


148 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUK. 

ployed by Timms to counteract this malign influence had failed of 
their object; they working merely for money, while those of the 
other side were resenting what they regarded as an affront. 

The family of the Burtons, the nearest neighbors ot the Goodwins, 
no longer received Timms with the frank cordiality that they had 
manifested in the earlier period of his intercourse with them. Then, 
they had been communicative, eager to tell all that they knew, and, 
as the lawyer fancied, even a little more; while they were now re- 
served, uneasy, and indisposed to let one half of the real facts 
within their knowledge be known. Timms thought they had been 
worked upon, and that they might expect some hostile and impor- 
tant testimony from that quarter. The consultation ended by an 
exclamation from Dunscomb on the subject of the abuses that were 
so fast creeping into the administration of justice, rendering the 
boasted freemen of. America, though in a different mode, little 
more likely to receive its benefit from an unpolluted stream, than 
they who live under the worn out and confessedly corrupt systems 
of the old world. Such is the tendency of things, and such one of 
the ways ot the hour. 


CHAPTER XV. 

Are those her ribs through which the sun 

Did peer, as through a gate? 

And is that woman all her crew? 

Is that a Death, and are there two? 

Is Death that woman’s mate? 

The Phantom Ship , 

After a short preparatory interview with Anna Updyke, Duns- 
comb repaired to the jail, whither he had already dispatched a noth 
to announce his intended visit. Good Mrs. Gott received him with 
earnest attention; for, as the day of trial approached, this kind- 
hearted woman manifested a warmer and warmer interest in the 
fate of her prisoner. 

“You are welcome, Mr. Dunscomb,” said this well-disposed and 
gentle turnkey, as she led the way to the door that opened on the 
gallery of the jail; “and welcome, again and again. I do wish 
this business may fall into good hands; and I’m afraid Timms is 
not getting on with it as well as he might.” 

“ My associate has the reputation of being a skillful attorney and 
a good manager, Mrs. Gott.” 

“ So he lias, Mr. Dunscomb; but somehow— I scarce know how 
myself— but somehow, he doesn’t get along with this cause, as well 
as 1 have known him to get along with others. The excitement in 
the county is terrible; and Gott has had seven anonymous letters to 
let him know that if Mary Monson escape, his hopes from the pub- 
lic are gone forever. I tell him not to mind such contemptible 
things; but he is frightened half out of his wits. It takes good 
'courage, squire, to treat an anonymous letter with the contempt it 
merits.” 

“ It sometimes does, indeed. Then you ihink we shall have up- 
hill work with the defense?” 

“ Dreadful! I’ve never known a cause so generally tried out of 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 149 

doors as this. What makes the matter more provoking, Mary Mon- 
son might have had it all her own way, it she had been so minded; 
lor, at brst, she was popularity itself with all the neighbors. Folks 
nat’rally like beauty, and elegance, and youth; and Mary has 
enough of each to make friends anywhere.” 

“What! with the ladies?’-’ said Dunscomb, smiling. “Surely 
not with your sex, Mrs. Gott?” 

“Yes, with the women, as well as with the men, if she would 
•only use her means— but she stands in her own light. Crowds have 
been round the outer windows to hear her play on the harp— they 
tell me she uses the real Jew’s-harp, Squire Dunscomb; such as 
Royal David used to play on; and that she has great skill. There 
is a German in the village who knows all about music, and he says 
Mary Monson has been excellently taught — by the very best mas- 
ters.” 

“ It is extraordinary; yet it would seem to be so. Will you have 
the goodness to open the door, Mrs. Gott?” 

“ With all my heart,” answered this, in one sense, very singular 
turnkey, though in another a very every-day character, jingling her 
keys, but not taking a forward step to comply; “ Mary Monson ex- 
pects you. 1 suppose, sir, you know that saucy Frank Williams is 
retained by the friends of the Goodwins?” 

“ Mr. Timms has told me as much as that. 1 can not say, how- 
ever, that I have any particular apprehension of encountering Mr. 
Williams.” 

“No, sir; not you , I’ll engage, not in open court; but out of 
4oors he’s very formidable.” 

“ 1 trust this cause, one involving the life and reputation of a 
very interesting female, will not be tried out of dqors, Mrs. Gott. 
The issue is too serious for such a tribunal.” 

“ So a body would think; but a great deal of law-business is set- 
tled, they tell me, under the sheds, and in the streets, and in the 
taverns; most especially in the juror’s bedrooms, and settled in a 
way it ought not to be.” 

“ I am afraid you are nearer right than every just-minded person 
could wish. But we will talk of this another time — the door, if 
you please, now.” 

“Yes, sir, in one minute. It would be so easy for Mary Monson 
to be just as popular with everybody in Biberry as she is with me. 
Let her come to one of the side windows of the gallery this evening, 
and show herself to the folks, and play on that harp of hers, and 
Royal David himself could not. have been better liked by the Jews 
of old, than she would soon be by our people hereabouts.” 

“ It is probably now too late. 'The court sits in a few days; and 
the mischief, if any there be, must be done.” 

“ No such thing, begging your pardon, squire. There's that in 
Mary Monson that can carry anything she pleases. Folks now 
think her proud and consequential, because she will not just stand 
at one of the grates and let them look at her a little.” 

“ 1 am afraid, Mrs. Gott, your husband has taught you a greater 
respect for those you call ‘ the people,’ than they deserve to receive 
at your hands.” 

“ Gott is dreadfully afraid of them—” 


150 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 

“ And lie is set apart by the laws to see them executed on these 
very people,” interrupted Dunscomb, with a sneer; “to levy on 
their possessions, keep the peace, enforce the Jaws; in short, to 
make them feel, whenever it is necessary, that they are governed ! ’ ’ 

“ Gott says ‘ that the people will rule.’ That’s Ms great saying.” 

“Will seem to rule, is true enough; but the most that the mass 
of any nation can do, is occasionally to check the proceedings of 
their governors. The every-day work is most effectually done by 
a favored few here, just as it is done by a favored few everywhere 
else. The door, now, if you please, my good Mrs. Gott.” 

“ Yes, sir, in one minute. Dear me! how odd that you should 
think so. Why, 1 thought that you were a Democrat, Mr. Duns- 
comb?” 

“ So 1 am, as between forms of government; but 1 never was fool, 
enough to think that the people can really rule, further than by oc- 
casional checks and rebukes.” 

“What would Gott say to this? Why, he is so much afraid of 
the people, that he tells me he never does anything, without fancy- 
ing some one is looking over his shoulders.” 

“ Ay, that is a very good rule for a man who wishes to be chosen 
sheriff. To be a bishop , it would be better to remember the omnis- 
cient eye.” 

“ 1 do declare — oh! Gott never thinks of that, more’s the pity,” 
applying the key to the lock. “ When you wish to come out, squire, 
just call at this grate ’’—then dropping her . voice to a whisper — 
“ try" and persuade Mary Monson to show herself at one of the side 
grates.” 

But Dunscomb entered the gallery with no such intention. As 
hq was expected, his reception was natural and easy. The prisoner 
was carefully though simply dressed, and she appeared all the bet- 
ter, most probably, from some of the practiced arts of her woman. 
Marie Moulin, herself, kept modestly within the cell, where, indeed, 
she passed most of her time, leaving the now quite handsomely fur- 
nished gallery to the uses of her mistress. 

After the first lew words of salutation, Dunscomb took the chair 
he was invited to occupy, a good deal at a loss how to address a 
woman of his companion’s mien and general air as a culprit about 
to be tried for her life. He first attempted words of course. 

“ 1 see you have had a proper regard to your comforts in this 
miserable place,” he remarked. 

“ Do not call it by so forbidding a name, Mr. Dunscomb,” was 
the answer, given with a sorrowful, but exceedingly winning smile- 
— “ it is my place of refuge .” 

4 ‘ Do you still persist in refusing to tell me against what , Miss 
Monson?” 

“ 1 persist in nothing that ought not to be done, 1 hope. At an- 
other time I may be more communicative. But, if what Mrs. Gott 
tells me is correct, 1 need these walls to prevent my being tom to 
pieces by those she calls the people, outside.” 

Dunscomb looked with amazement at the being who quietly made 
this remark on her own situation. Of beautiful form, with all the 
signs of a gentle origin and refined education, young, handsome, 
delicate, nay, dainty of speech and acts, there she sat, indicted for 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 151 

arson and mhrder, and about to be tried for her life, with the com- 
posure of a lady in her drawing-room! The illuminated expression 
that, at times, rendered her countenance so very remarkable, had 
now given place to one of sobered sadness; though apprehension 
did not appear to be in the least predominant. 

“ The sheriff has instilled into his wife a very healthful respect 
for those she calls the people— healthful, for one who looks to their 
voices for his support. This is very American.” 

“ 1 suppose it to be much the same everywhere. 1 have been a 
good deal abroad, Mr. Dunscomb, and can not say 1 perceive any 
great difference in men.” 

“ IS or is there any, though circumstances cause different modes 
of betraying their weaknesses, as well as what there is in'them that 
is good. But the people in this country, Miss Monson, possess a power 
that, in youi case, is not to be despised. As Mrs. Gott w T ould inti- 
mate, it may be prudent for you to remember that." 

“ Surely you would not have me make an exhibition of myself, 
Mr. Dunscomb, at the window of a jail!” 

“ As far from that as possible. 1 would have you do nothing 
that is unbecoming one of your habits and opinions— nothing, in 
short, that would be improper, as a means of defense, by one ac- 
cused and tried by the State. Nevertheless, it is always wiser to 
make friends than to make enemies.” 

Mary Monson lowered her eyes to the carpet, and Dunscomb per- 
ceived that her thoughts wandered. They were not on her critical 
situation. It was indispensably necessary, however, that he should 
be explicit, and he did not shrink from his duly. Gently, but dis- 
tinctly, and with a clearness that a far less gifted mind than that of 
the accused could comprehend, he now opened the subject of the 
approaching trial. A few words were first ventured on its grave 
character, and on the vast importance it was in all respects to his 
client; to which the latter listened attentively, but without the 
slightest visible alarm. Next, he alluded to the stories that were in 
circulation, the impression they were producing, and the danger 
there was that her rights might be affected by these sinister opinions. 

“ But 1 am to be tried by a judge and a jury, they tell me,” said 
Mary Monson, when Dunscomb ceased speaking — “ they will come- 
from a distance, and will not be prejudiced against me by all this 
idle gossip.” 

“ Judges and jurors are only men, and nothing goes further with 
less effort than your ‘ idle gossip.’ Nothing is repeated accurately, 
or it is very rare to find it so; and those who only half comprehend 
a subject are certain to relate with exaggerations and Jalse color- 
ings.” 

“ How, then, can the electors discover the real characters of those 
for whom they are required to vote?” demanded Mary Monson, 
smiling; “ or get just ideas of the measures they are to support or 
to oppose?” 

“Half the time they do neither. It exceeds all our present 
means, at least, to diffuse sufficient information for that. The con- 
sequence is, that appearances and assertions are made to take the 
place of facts. The mental food of the bulk of this nation is an 
opinion simulated by Ihe artful to answer their own purposes. But 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


152 

the power of the masses is getting to be very formidable— more 
formidable in a way never contemplated by those who formed the 
institutions, than in any way that was foreseen. Among other 
things, they begin to hold the administration of justice in the hol- 
low of their hands. ” 

“ i am not to be tried by the masses, I trust. If so, my fate 
would be very hard, 1 fear, judging from what 1 hear in my little 
excursions in the neighborhood.” 

‘‘Excursions, Miss Monson!” repeated the astonished Duns- 
comb. 

“ Excursions, sir; 1 make one for the benefit of air and exercise, 
every favorable night, at this fine season of the year. Surely you 
would not have me cooped up here in a jail, without the relief of a 
little fresh air?” 

“ With the knowledge and concurrence of the sheri ft, or that of 
his wife?” 

“ Perhaps not strictly with those of either ; though 1 suspect good 
Mrs. Gott has an inkling of my movements. It would be too hard 
to deny myself air and exercise, both of which are very necessary 
to my health, because 1 am charged with these horrid crimes.” 

Dunscomb passed a hand over his brow, as if he desired to clear 
his mental vision by friction of the physical, and, for a moment, 
sat absolutely lost in wonder. He scarce knew whether he was or 
was not dreaming. 

“ And you have actually been outside of these walls, Miss Mon- 
son!” he exclaimed, at length. 

“ Twenty times, at least. Why should 1 stay within them, when 
the means of quitting them are always in my power?” 

As Mary Monson said this, she showed her counsel a set of keys 
that corresponded closely with those which good Mrs. Gott was in 
the habit of using whenever she came to open the door of that par- 
ticular gallery. A quiet smile betrayed now little the prisoner 
fancied there was anything remarkable in all this. 

“ Are you aware, Miss Monson, it is felony to assist a prisoner to 
escape?” 

“ So they tell me, Mr. Dunscomb; but as 1 have not escaped, or 
made any attempt to escape, and have returned regularly and in 
good season to my jail, no one can be harmed for what 1 have done.. 
Such, at least, is the opinion of Mr. Timms.” 

Dunscomb did not like the expression of face that accompanied 
this speech. It might be too much to say it was absolutely cunning; 
but there was so much of the maneuvering of one accustomed to 
manage in it, that it awakened the unpleasant distrust that existed, 
in the earlier days of his intercourse with this singular young wom- 
an, and which had now been dormant for several weeks. Theie 
was, however, so much of the cold polish of the upper classes in his 
client’s manner, that the offending expression was thrown off from 
the surface of her looks, as light is reflected from the ground and 
silvered mirror. At the very instant which succeeded this seeming 
gleam of cunning, all was calm, quiet, refined, gentle, and without 
apparent emotion in the countenance of the accused. 

” Timms!” repeated Dunscomb, slowly. “ So he has known of 
this, and 1 dare say has had an agency in bringing it about?” 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


153 


4 4 As you say it is felony to aid a prisoner to escape, I can say 
neither yes nor no to this, Mr. Dunscomb, lest I betray an accom- 
plice. 1 should rather think, however, that Mr. Timms is not a 
person to be easily caught in the meshes of the law.” 

Again the counselor disliked the expression ; though Mary Mon- 
son looked unusually pretty at that particular moment. He did not 
pause to analyze his feelings notwithstanding, but rather sought to 
relieve his own curiosity, which had been a good deal aroused by 
the information just received. 

“ As you have not hesitated to tell me of what you call your * ex- 
cursions,’ Miss Monson,” he continued, “ perhaps you will so far 
extend your confidence as to let me know where you go?” 

“ 1 can have no objection to that. Mr. Timms tells me the law 
can not compel a counsel to betray his client’s secrets; and of course 
I am safe with you. Stop — I have a duty to perform that has been 
too long delayed. Gentlemen of your profession are entitled to 
their fees; and, as yet, 1 have been very remiss in this respect. Will 
you do me the favor, Mr. Dunscomb, to accept that, which you 
will see has been some time in readiness to be offered?” 

Dunscomb was too much of a professional man to' feel any em- 
barrassment at this act of justice; but he took the letter, broke the 
seal, even before his client’s eyes, and held up for examination a 
note for a thousand dollars. Prepared as he was by Timms’s ac- 
count for a liberal reward, this large sum took him a good deal by 
surprise. 

“This is an unusual fee, Miss Monson!” he exclaimed; “one 
much more considerable than 1 should expect from you, were I 
working for remuneration, as in your case 1 certainly am not.” 

“ Gentlemen of the law look for their reward, 1 believe, as much 
as others. We do not live in the times of chivalry, when gallant 
men assisted distressed damsels as a matter of honor; but in what 
has well been termed a ‘ bank-note world.’ ” 

“ I have no wish to set myself up above the fair practices of my 
profession, and am as ready to accept a fee as any man in Nassau 
Street. Nevertheless, 1 took your case in hand with a very differ- 
ent motive. It would pain me to be obliged to work for a fee, on 
the present unhappy occasion.” 

~ Mary Monson looked grateful, and for a minute she seemed to be 
^reflecting on some scheme by which she could devise a substitute 
for the old-fashioned mode of proceeding in a case of this sort. 

“You have a niece, Mr. Dunscomb,” she at length exclaimed — 
“ as Marie Moulin informs me? A charming girl, and who is about 
to be married?” 

The lawyer assented by an inclination of the head, fastening his 
penetrating black eyes on the full, expressive, grayish-blue ones of 
his companion. 

“You intend to return to town this evening?” said Mary Mon- 
son, in continuation. 

“ Such is my intention. 1 came here to-day to confer with you 
and Mr. Timms, on the subject of the trial, to see how matters stand 
on the spot, by personal observation, and to introduce to you one 
who feels the deepest interest in your welfare, and desires most 
earnestly to seek your acquaintance. ” 


THE WAtS OF THE HOUR. 


154 

The prisoner was now silent, interrogating with her singularly 
expressive eyes. 

“It is Anna Updyke, the step-daughter of my nearest friend,. 
Doctor McBrain; and a very sincere, warm-hearted, ana excellent 
girl.” 

“ 1 have heard of her, too,” returned Mary Monson, with a smile 
so strange, that her counsel wished she had not given this demon- 
stration of a feeling that seemed out of place, under all the circum- 
stances. “ They tell me she is a most charming girl, and that she 
is a very great favorite v ith your nephew, the young gentleman 
whom 1 have styled my legal vedette.” 

“ Vedette! That is a singular term to be used by you!" 

“Oh! you will remember that 1 have been much in countries 
where such persons abound. 1 must have caught the word from 
some of the young soldiers of Europe. But, Mr. John Wilmeter is 
an admirer of the young lady you have named?” 

“ 1 hope he is. 1 know of no one with whom 1 think he would 
be more likely to be happy.” 

Dunscomb spoke earnestly, and at such times his manner was 
singularly sincere and impressive. It was this appearance of feel- 
ing and nature that gave him the power he possessed over juries, 
and it may be said to have made no small part of his fortune. Mary 
Monson seemed to be surprised; and she fastened her remarkable 
eyes on the uncle, in a way that might have admitted of different 
interpretations. Her lips moved as if she spoke to herself; and the 
smile that succeeded was both mild and sad. 

“To be sure,” added the prisoner, slowly, “my inforamtion ia 
not on the very best authority, coming, as it does, from a servant — 
but Marie Moulin is both discreet and observant.” 

“ She is tolerably well qualified to speak ol Anna Updyke, hav- 
ing seen her almost daily lor the last two years. But, we are all 
surprised that you should know anything of this young woman.” 

“ I know her precisely as she is known to your niece and Miss 
Updyke— in other words, as a maid who is much esteemed by those 
she serves — but,” apparently wishing to change the fliscourse — “ -we 
are forgetting the purpose of your visit, all this time, Mr. Duns- 
comb. Do me the favor to write your address in town, and that of 
Doctor McBrain on this card, and we will proceed to business.” 

Dunscomb did as desired, when he opened on the details that were 
the object of his little journey. As had been the case in all his 
previous interviews with her, Mary Monson surprised him with the 
coolness with which she spoke of an issue that involved her own 
fate, for life or for death. While she carefully abstained from 
making any allusion to circumstances that might betray her previ- 
ous history, she shrunk from no inquiry that bore on the acts of 
which she had been accused. Every question put by Dunscomb 
that related to the murders and the arson, was answered frankly 
and freely, there being no wish apparent to conceal the minutest 
circumstances, bhe made several exceedingly shrewd and useful 
suggestions on the subject of the approaching trial, pointing out 
defects in the testimony against her, and reasoning with singular 
acuteness on particular facts that were known to be much relied on 
by the prosecution. We shall not leveal these details any fiuther 


THE WAYS OE THE HOUR. 


155 

In this stage of our narrative, for they will necessarily appear at 
length in our subsequent pages ; but shall confine ourselves to a few 
of those remarks that may be better given at present. 

4 1 do not know, Mr. Dunscomb,” Mary Monson suddenly said, 
while the subject of her trial was yet under discussion, “ that! have 
ever mentioned to you the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Goodwin were not 
happy together. One would think, from what was said at the time 
of the inquest, that they were a very affectionate and contented 
couple; but my own observation, during the short time 1 was under 
their roof, taught me better. The husband drank, and the wife 
was avaricious and very quarrelsome. I am afraid, sir, there are 
few really happy couples to be found on earth!” 

“ If you knew McBrain better, you would not say that, my dear 
Miss Monson,” answered the counselor with a sort of glee — “ there’s 
a husband for you!— a fellow who is not only happy with one wife, 
but who is happy with three, as he will tell you himself.” 

“ Not all at the same time, 1 hope, sir?” 

Dunscomb did justice to his friend’s character, by relating how 
the matter really stood; after which he asked permission to intro- 
duce Anna Updyke. Mary Monson seemed startled at this request, 
and asked several questions, which induced her counsel to surmise 
that she was fearful of being recognized. IN or was Dunscomb 
pleased with all the expedients adopted by his client, in order to ex- 
tract information from him. He thought they slightly indicated 
cunning, a quality that he might be said to abhor. Accustomed as 
he was to all the efforts of ingenuity in illustrating a principle or 
maintaining a proposition, he had always avoided everything like 
sophistry and falsehood. This weakness on the part of Mary Mon- 
son, however, was soon forgotten in the graceful manner in which 
she acquiesced in the wish of the stranger to be admitted. The per- 
mission was finally accorded, as if an honor were received, with the 
tact of a female and the easy dignity of a gentlewoman. 

Anna Updyke possessed a certain ardor of character that had 
more than once given her prudent and sagacious mother uneasi- 
ness, and which sometimes led her into the commission of acts, al- 
ways innocent in themselves, and perfectly under the restraint of 
principles, which the world would have been apt to regard as im- 
prudent. , Such, however, was far from being her reputation; her 
modesty, and the diffidence with which she regarded herself, being 
amply sufficient to protect her from the common observation, even 
while most beset by the weakness named. Her love for John Wil- 
meter was so disinterested, or to herself so seemed to be, that she 
fancied she could even assist in bringing about his union with an- 
other woman, were that necessary to his happiness. She believed 
that this mysterious stranger was, to say the least, an object of in- 
tense interest with John, which soon made her an object of intense 
interest with herself; and each hour increased her desire to become 
acquainted with one so situated, friendless, accused, and seemingly 
suspended by a thread over an abyss, as she was. When she first 
made her proposal to Dunscomb to be permitted to visit his client, 
the wary and experienced counselor strongly objected to the step. 

It was imprudent, could lead to no good, and might leave an im- 
pression unfavorable to Anna’s own character. But this' advice was 


lo6 THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 

unheeded by a girl of Anna Updyke’s generous temperament. Quiet: 
and gentle as she ordinarily appeared to be, there was a deep under- 
current of feeling and enthusiasm in her moral constitution, that 
bore her onward in any course which she considered to be right, 
with a total abnegation of self. This was a quality to lead to good 
or evil, as it might receive a direction; and happily nothing had yet 
occurred in her brief existence to carry her away toward the latter 
goal. 

Surprised at the steadiness and warmth with which his young 
friend persevered in her request, Dunscomb, after obtaining the per- 
mission of her mother, and promising to take good care of his 
charge, was permitted to convey Anna to Biberry, in the manner 
related. 

Now, that her wish was about to be gratified, Anna Updyke, like 
thousands of others who have been more impelled by impulses than 
governed by reason, shrunk from the execution of her own pur- 
poses. But the generous ardor revived in her in time to save ap- 
pearances; and she was admitted by well-meaning Mrs. Gott to the 
gallery of the prison, leaning on Dunscomb ’s arm, much as she might 
have entered a drawing-room, in a regular morning call. 

The meeting between these two charming young Women was 
frank and cordial, though slightly qualified by the forms of the 
world. A watchful and critical observer might have detected less 
of nature in Mary Monson's manner than in that of her guest, even 
while the welcome she gave her visitor was not without cordiality 
and feeling. It is true that her courtesy was more elaborate and 
European, if one may use the expression, than it is usual to see in 
an American female, and her air was less ardent than that of Anna; 
hut the last was highly struck with her countenance and general 
appearance, and, on the whole, not dissatisfied with her own re- 
ception. 

The power of sympathy and the force of affinities soon made 
themselves felt, as between these two youthful females. Anna re- 
garded Mary as a stranger most grievously wronged ; and forgetting 
all that there was which was questionable or mysterious in her situ- 
ation, or remembering it only to feel the influence of its interest, 
while she submitted to a species of community of feeling with John 
Wilmeter, as she fancied, and soon got to be as much entranced 
with the stranger as seemed to be the fate of all who approached the 
circle ot her acquaintance. On the other hand, Mary Monson felt 
a consolation and gratification in this visit to which she had long 
been a stranger. Good Mrs. Gott was kind-hearted and a woman, 
but she had no claim to the refinement and peculiar sensibilities of a 
lady; while Marie Moulin, discreet, respectful, even wise as she was 
in her own way, was, after all, nothing but an upper servant. The 
chasm between the cultivated and the uncultivated, the polished 
and the unpolished, is wide; and the accused fully appreciated the 
change, when one of her own class in life, habits, associations, and, 
if the reader will, prejudices, so unexpectedly appeared to sympa- 
thize with, and to console her. Under such circumstances, three or 
four hours made the two fast and deeply-interested friends, on their 
own accounts, tc say, nothing of the effect produced by the generous 
advances of one, and the perilous condition of the other. 


■157 


THE WAYS OP THE HOUR. 

Dunscomb returned to town that evening, leaving Anna Updyke 
behind him, ostensibly under the care of Mrs. Gott. Democracy has- 
been carried so far on the high-road of ultraism in !New York, as 
in very many interests to become the victim of its own expedients. 
Perhaps the people are never so tar from exercising a healthful, or 
indeed, any authority at all, as when made to seem, by the expe- 
dients of demagogues, to possess an absolute control. It is neces- 
sary merely to bestow a power which it is impossible for the masses 
to wield with intelligence, in order to effect 1hi3 little piece of leger- 
demain in politics, the quasi-people in all such cases becoming the 
passive instruments in the hands of their leaders, who strengthen their 
own authority by this seeming support of the majority. In all cases, 
however, in which the agency of numbers can be felt, its force is 
made to prevail, the tendency necessarily being to bring down all 
representation to the level of the majority. The effect of the change 
has been pretty equally divided between good and evil. In many 
cases benefits have accrued to the community by the exercise of this 
direct popular control, while in probably quite as many the result 
has been exactly the reverse of that which was anticipated. In no one 
instance, we believe it will be generally admitted, has the departure 
from the old practice been less advantageous than in rendering the 
office of sheriff elective. Instead of being a leading and independ- 
ent man, who has a pride in his position, and regards the character 
of his county as he does his own, this functionary has got to be, 
nine times in ten, a mere political maneuverer, who seeks the place 
as a reward for party labors, and fills it very much for his personal 
benefit, conferring no dignity on it by his own position and charac- 
ter, lessening its authority by his want of the qualities calculated to 
increase it, and, in a good many instances, making it quile as diffi- 
cult to wrest, money from his hands, as from those of the original 
debtor. 

It is a consequence of this state of things that the sheriff has quite 
lost all. or nearly all of the personal consideration that was once 
connected with his office; and has sunk, in most of the strictly rural 
counties, into a jailer, and the head of the active bailiffs. His ob- 
ject is altogether money; and the profit connected with the keeping 
of the prisoners, now reduced almost entirely to felons, the accused, 
and persons committed for misdemeanors, is one of the inducements 
for aspiring to an office once so honorable. 

In this state of things, it is not at all surprising that Dunscomb 
was enabled to make such an arrangement with Mrs. Gott as would 
place Anna Updyke in a private room in the house attached to the 
jail, and which formed the sheriff’s dwelling. The counselor pre- 
ferred leaving her with Mrs. Horton; but to this Anna herself ob- 
jected, both because she had taken a strong dislike to the garrulous 
but shrewd landlady, and because it would have separated her too 
much from the person she had come especially to console and sym- 
pathize with. 

The arrangement made, Dunscomb, as has already been men- 
tioned, took his departure for town, with the understanding that he 
was to return the succeeding week; the Circuit and Oyer and Ter- 
miner sitting on Monday; and the district attorney, Mr. Garth, 
having given notice to her counsel that the indictment against Mary 


THE WAYS OF THE - HOUR. 


158 

Monson would be certainly traversed the second day of the sitting, 
which would he on Tuesday. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Let her locks be the reddest that ever were seen 
An d her eyes may be e’en any color but green; 

Be they light, gray, or black, their luster and hue, 

I swear I’ve no choice, only let her have two. 

. The Duenna. 

Two days after this, Dunscomb was in his library, late at night, 
holding a biief discourse with McBrain’s coachman, who has been 
already introduced to the reader. Some orders had been given to 
the last, in relation to another trip to Biberry, whither the master 
and our lawyer were to proceed next day. The man wgs an old 
and indulged servant, and often took great liberties in these con- 
ferences. In this respect the Americans of his class differ very lit- 
tle from the rest of their fellow-creatures, notwithstanding all that 
has been said and written to the contrary. They obey the impulses 
of their characters much as the rest of mankind, though not abso- 
lutely without some difference in manner. 

“I B’poses, Squire Dunscomb, that this is like to be the last 
journey that I and the doctor will have to take soon ag’in, in that 
quarter,” coolly observed Stephen, when his master’s friend had 
told him the hour to be at the door, with the other preparations that 
would be necessary; “ unless we should happen to be called in at 
the 'post mortal .” 

“ Post mortem, you must mean, Hoof,” a slight smile flashing on 
the lawyer’s countenance, and as quickly disappearing. “ So you 
consider it a settled thing that my client is to be found" guilty?” 

“ That’s what they say, sir; and things turn out, in this country, 
pretty much as they say aforeliand. For my part, sir, 1 never quite 
liked the criminal's looks.” 

“ Her looks ! I do not know where you would go to find a more 
lovely young woman, Stephen!” 

This was said with a vivacity and suddenness that startled the 
coachman a little. Even Dunscomb seemed surprised at his own 
animation, and had the grace to change color. The fact was, that 
he too was feeling the influence of woman, youthful, lovely, spirited, 
refined, and sdrrounded with difficulties. This was the third of 
Mary Monson’s conquests since her arrest, it John Wilmeter’s wav- 
ering admiration could be placed in this category; viz., Timms, the 
nephew, and the counselor himself. Neither was absolutely in love; 
but each and all submitted to an interest of an unusual degree in 
The person, character and fortunes of this unknown female. Timms, 
alone, had got so far as to contemplate a marriage; the idea having 
crossed his mind that it might be almost as useful as popularity, to 
become the husband of one possessed of so much money. 

“ I’ll not deny her good looks, squire, ” returned Stephen Hoof- 
er Stephen Huff, as he called himself— “ but it’s her had looks that 
isn’t so much to my fancy. Vhy, sir, once the doctor had a horse 
that was agreeable enough to the eye, having a good color and most 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


159 

of the p’ints, but who wasn’t no traveler, not a bit on’t. One that 
know’d the animal could see where the fault lay, the fetlock j’int 
being oncommon longish; and that’s what 1 call good looks and bad 
looks.” 

“You mean, Stephen,” said Dunscomb, who had regained all his 
.sang froid, “ that Mary Monsonhas a bad-looking ankle, 1 suppose, 
wherein 1 think you miserably mistaken. No matter; she will not 
have to travel under your lash very far. But, how is it with the 
reporters? Do you see any more of your friend that asks so many 
questions?” 

“ They be an axing set, squire, if anybody can be so called,” re- 
turned Stephen, grinning. “ Would you think it, sir? one day when 
1 was a cornin’ in from Timbully empty, one on ’em axed me tor a 
ride! a chap as hadn’t his foot in a reg’lar private coach since he 
was born, a wantin’ to drive about iD a weliicle as well known as 
Doctor McBrain’s best carriage! Them’s the sort of chaps that 
spreads all the reports that’s going up and down the land, they tell 
me.” 

‘ ‘ They do their share of it, Stephen ; though there are enough to- 
help them who do not openly belong to their corps. Well, what 
does your acquaintance want to know now?” 

“ Oncommon curious, squire, about the bones. He axed me more 
than forty questions; what we thought of them ; and about their being 
male or female bones; and how we know’d; and a great many more 
sicli matters. I answered him accordin’ to my abilities; and so he 
made an article on the subject, and has sent me the papers.” 

“An article! Concerning Mary Monson, and on your informa- 
tion?” 

“ Sartain, sir; and the bones. Vhy, they cut articles Out of much 
narrower cloth, 1 can tell you, squire. There’s the cooks, and 
chambermaids, and vaiters about town, hone of vich can hold up 
their heads with a reg’lar, long-established physician’s coachman, 
who goes far ahead of even an omnibus driver in public estimation, 
as you must know, squire — but such sort of folks furnish many an 
article for the papers nowadays— yes, and articles that ladies and 
gentlemen read.” 

“ That is certainly a singular source of useful knowledge — one 
must hope they are well-grounded, or they will soon cease to be 
ladies and gentlemen at all. Have you the paper about you, Ste- 
phen?” 

Hoof handed the lawyer a journal folded with a paragraph in 
view that was so much thumbed and dirtied, it was not very easy to 
read it. 

“We understand that the trial of Mary Monson, for the murder 
• of Peter and, Dorothy Goodwin,” said the “ article,” “ will come 
off in the adjoining county of Dukes, at a very early day. Strong 
attempts have been made to make it appear that the skeletons found 
in the ruins of Goodwin’s dwelling, which our readers will remember 
was burned at the time of the murders, are not human bones; but 
we have been at great pains to investigate this very material point, 
and have no hesitation in giving it as our profound conviction that 
it will be made to appear that these melancholy memorials are all 
that remain of the excellent couple who were so suddenly taken out 


160 THE WAY$ OF THE HOUK. 

of existence. We do not speak lightly on this subject, having gone 
to the fountain-head for our facts, as well as for our science.” 

“ Hoot on McBrain!” muttered Dunscomb, arching his brows— 

this is much of a piece with quite one-half of the knowledge that 
is poured into the popular mind, nowadays. Thank you, Stephen; 
1 will keep this paper, which may be of use at the trial.” 

“ 1 thought our opinions was vorth something more than nothing, 
sir,” answered the gratified coachman—” a body doesn’t ride at all 
hours, day and night, year arter year, and come out where he start- 
ed; I vishes you to keep that ’ere paper, squire, a little carefully, 
for it may be wanted in the college where" they reads all sorts of 
things, one of these days.” 

“ It shall be cared for, my friend— 1 hear seme one at the stieet- 
door bell. It is late for a. call, and 1 fear Peter has gone to bed. 
See who is there, and good-night.” 

Stephen withdrew, the ringing being repeated a little impatiently, 
and .was soon at the street-door. The fellow admitted the visitors, 
and went ruminating homeward, Dunscomb maintaining a very re- 
spectable reputation, in a bachelor point of view, for morals. As 
for the lawyer himself, he was in the act of reading a second time 
the precious opinion expressed in the journals, when the door of his 
library opened, a little hesitatingly it must be confessed, and two 
females stood on its threshold. Although his entirely unexpected, vis- 
itors were so much muffled in shawls and veils it w r as not possible to 
distinguish even the outlines of their persons, Dunscomb fancied 
each was youthful and handsome, the instant he cast his eyes on 
them. The result showed how well he guessed. 

Throwing aside the garments that concealed their forms and 
faces, Mary Monson and Anna'Updyke advanced into the room. 
The first was perfectly self-possessed and brilliantly handsome; while 
her companion, flushed with excitement and exercise, was not much 
behind her in this important particular. Dunscomb started, and 
fancied there was felony, even in his hospitality. 

” You knowhow difficult it is for me to travel by daylight,” com- 
menced Mary Monson, in the most natural manner in the world; 
” tnat, and the distance we had to drive, must explain the unseason 
ableness of this visit. You told me once, yourself, that you are 
both a late and an early man, which encouraged me to venture. Mr. 
Timms has written me a letter which I have thought it might be 
w r ell to show you. There it is; and when you have cast an eye over 
it, we will speak of its contents.” 

“ Why, this is very much like a conditional proposal of marriage!” 
cried Dunscomb, dropping the hand that held the letter, as soon as 
he had read the first paragraph. ” Conditional, so far as the result 
of your trial is concerned!” 

” I forgot the opening of the epistle, giving very little thought to 
its purport; though Mr. Timms has not written me a line lately that 
has not touched on this interesting subject. A marriage between 
him and me is so entirely out of the way of all the possibilities, that 
1 look upon his advances as mere embellishment. I have answered 
him directly in the negative once, and that ought to satisfy any pru- 
dent person. They tell me no 'woman should marry a man she has 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 161 

once refused; and 1 shall plehd I his as a reason for continued ob- 
duracy.” 

This "was said pleasantly, and without the least appearance of re- 
sentment ; but in a way to show she regarded her attorney’s propo- 
sal as very much out of the beaten track. As for Dunscomb, he 
passed his hand over his brows, and read the rest of a pretty long 
letter with grave attention. The purely business part of this com- 
munication was much to the point; important, clearly put, and 
every way creditable to the writer. The lawyer read it attentively a 
•second time, ere he once opened his mouth in comments. 

■“ And why is this shown to me?” he asked, a little vexed, as was 
•seen in his manner. “ J have told you it is felony to assist a pris- 
oner in an attempt to escape.” 

“ 1 have shown it to you, because 1 have not the remotest inten- 
tion, Mr. Dunscomb, to attempt anything of the sort. I shall not 
quit my asylum so easily.” 

“ Then why aie you here, at this hour, with the certainty that 
most of the night must be passed on the road, if you mean to return 
-to your prison ere the sun reappears?” 

“ For air, exercise, and to show you this letter. 1 am often in 
town, but am compelled, for moie reasons than you are acquainted 
with, to travel by night. ” 

‘‘May 1 ask where you obtain a vehicle to make these journeys 
in?” 

“ I use* my own carriage, and trust to a very long-tried and most 
faithful domestic. 1 think Miss Updyke will say he drove us not only 
carefully, but with great speed. On that score, we have no grounds 
of complaint. But 1 am very much fatigued, and must ask permis- 
sion to sleep for an hour. You have a drawing-room, 1 take it for 
granted, Mr. Dunscomb?” 

“ My niece fancies she has two. Shall 1 put lights in one of 
them?” 

“ By no means. Anna knows the house as well as she does her 
mother’s, and will do the honors. On no account let Miss Wilme- 
ter be disturbed. I am a little afraid of meeting her , since we have 
practiced a piece of treachery touching Marie Moulin. But, no mat- 
ter; one hour on a sofa, in a dark room, is all I ask. That will 
bring us to midnight, when the carriage will again be at the door. 
Y r ou wish to see your mother, my dear, and here is a sate and very 
suitable attendant to accompany you to her house and back again.” 

All this was said pleasantly, but with a singular air of authority, 
as if this mysterious being were accustomed to plan out and direct 
the movements of others. She had her way. In a minute or two 
•she was stretched on a sofa, covered with a shawl, the door was 
closed on her, and Dunscomb was on his way to Mrs. McBrain’s 
residence, which was at some distance from his own, with Anna 
leaning on his arm. 

“Of course, my dear,” said the lawyer, as he and his beautiful 
companion left his own door at that late hour of the night, ‘‘ we 
shall see no more of Mary Monson?” 

“ Not see her again! 1 should be very, very sorry to think that, 
sir!” 

“ She is no simpleton, and means to take Timms.’s advice. That 
6 


162 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUK. 


fellow _as written a strong letter, in no expectation of its being 
seen, 1 fancy, in which he points out a new source of danger; and 
plainly advises his client to abscond. 1 can see the infatuation of 
love in this; for the letter, if produced, would bring him into great 
trouble.” 

“ And you suppose, sir, that Mary Monson intends to follow this 
advice?” 

“ Beyond a question. She is not only a very clever, but she is a 
very cunning woman. This last quality is one that 1 admire in he? 
the least. 1 should be half in love with her myself ’’—this was ex- 
actly the state of the counselor’s feelings toward his client, in spite 
of his bravado and affected discernment; a woman’s charms often 
overshadowing a philosophy that is deeper even than his — ” but for 
this very trait, which lfind little to my taste. 1 take it for granted 
you are sent home to be put under your mother’s care, - where you 
properly belong; and 1 am got out of the way to save me from the 
pains and penalties of an indictment for felony.” 

“ 1 think you do not understand Mary Monson, Uncle Tom so 
Anna had long called her friend’s relative, as it might be in antici- 
pation of the time when the appellation would be correct. She is 
not the sort of person to do as you suggest; but would rather make 
it a point of honor to remain, and face any accusation whatever.” 

“ She must have nerves of steel to confront justice in a case like 
hers, and in the present slate of public feeling in Dukes* Justice 
is a very pretty thing to talk about, my dear; but we old practi- 
tioners know that it is little more, inhumau hands, than the manip- 
ulations of human passions. Of late years, the outsiders — outside 
barbarians they nright very properly be termed — have almost as 
much to do with the result of any warmly- contested suit, as the law 
and evidence. ‘Mho is on the jury?’ is the first question asked 
nowadays; not what are the facts. I have told all this very plainly 
to Mary Monson—” 

‘‘To induce her to fly?” asked Anna, prettily, and a little 
smartly. 

“ Not .so much that, as to induce her to consent to an application 
for delay. The judges of this country are so much overworked, so 
little paid, and usually are so necessitous, that almost any applica- 
tion tor delays is granted. Business at chambers is sadly neglected;' 
for that is done in a corner, and does not address itself to the publie 
eye, or seek public eulogiums, but he is thought the cleverest fellow 
who will soonest sweep" out a crowded calendar. Causes are tried 
by tallow candles until midnight, with half the jurors alseep; and 
hard-working men, accustomed to be asleep by eight each night, are 
expected to keep their thoughts and minds active in the face of alt 
these obstacles.” 

“ Do you tell me this, Uncle Tom, in the expectation that I am to 
understand it?” 

“ I beg your pardon, child; but my heart is full of the failing, 
justice of the land. TV e shout hosannas in praise of the institutions, 
while we shut our eyes to the gravest consequences that are fast 
undermining us in the most important of all our interests. But 
here we are already; 1 had no notion we had walked so fast. Yes 3 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


163 

there is Papa McBrain’s one-horse vehicle, well emptied of its con- 
tents, 1 hope, by a hard day’s work.” 

“ A doctor’s life must be so laborious!” exclaimed the pretty 
Anna. “I think nothing could tempt me tomarry a physician.” 

“ It is well a certain lady of our acquaintance was not of your way 
of thinking,” returned Dunscomb, laughing; for his good humor 
always returned when he could give his friend a rub on his matri- 
monial propensities, “ else would McBrain have been troubled to 
get his last and best. Never, mind, my dear; he is a good-natured 
fellow, and will make a very kind papa.” 

Anna made no reply, but rang the bell a little pettishly; for no 
child likes to have a mother married a second time, there being 
much greater toleration for fathers, and asked her companion in. 
As the wife of a physician in full practice, the bride had already 
changed many of her long- cherished habits. In this respect, how- 
ever, she did no more than follow the fortunes of woman, who so 
cheerfully makes any sacrifice in behalf of him she loves. If men 
were only one half as disinterested, as self-denying, and as true as 
the other sex, in all that relates to the affections, what a blessed state 
would that of matrimony be! Still, there are erring, and selfish, 
and domineering, and capricious, vain, heartless, and self-willed 
females, whom nature never intended for married life; and who are 
guilty of a species of profanation, when they stand up and vow to 
love, honor and obey their husbands. Many of these disregard their 
solemn pledges, made at the altar, and under the immediate invoca- 
tion of the Deity, as they would disregard a promise made in jest, 
and think no more of the duties and offices that are so peculiarly 
the province of their sex, than of the passing and idle promises of 
vanity. But, if such women exist, and that they do our daily ex- 
perience proves, they are as exceptions to the great law of female 
faith, which is tenderness and truth. They are not women in char- 
acter, whatever they may be in appearance; but creatures in the 
guise of a sex that they discredit and caricature. 

Mrs. McBrain was not a person of the disposition just described. 
She was gentle and good, and bid fair to make the evening of her 
second husband’s days very happy. Sooth to say, she was a good 
deal in love, notwithstanding tier lime of life, and the still more 
mature years of the bridegroom ; and had been so much occupied 
with the duties and cares that belonged to her recent change of con- 
dition, as to be a little forgetful of her daughter. At no other 
period of their joint lives would she have permitted this beloved 
child to be absent from her, under such circumstances, without 
greater care for her safety and comforts; but there is a honey-week, 
as well as a honey-moon; and the intenseness of its feelings might 
veiy well disturb the ordinary round of even maternal duties. Glad 
enough, however, was she now to see her daughter; when Anna, 
blooming, and smiling, and blushing, flew into her mother’s arms. 

“ There she is, widow — Mrs. Updyke— I beg pardon — married 
woman, and Mrs. McBrain,” cried Dunscomb — “Ned is such an 
uneasy fellow, he keeps all his friends in 'a fever with his emotions, 
and love, and matrimony; and that just suits him, as he has only 
to administer a pill and set all right again. But there she is, safe 
and unmarried , thank Heaven; which is always a sort of consola- 


164 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


tion to me. She’s back again, and you will do well to keep her, 
until my nephew, Jack, comes to ask permission to carry her off, 
for good and all.” 

Anna blushed more deeply than ever, while the mother smiled 
and embraced her child. Then succeeded questions a»nd answers, 
until Mrs. McBrain had heard the whole story ot her daughter’s in- 
tercourse with Mary Monson, so far as it nas been made known to 
the reader. Beyond that, Anna did not think herself authorized to 
go; or, if she made any revelation, it would be premature for us U> 
repeat it. 

“ Here we are, all liable to be indicted for felony,” cried Duns- 
comb, as soon as the young lady had told her tale. “ Timms will 
be hanged, in place of his client; and we three will have cells at 
Sing Sing, as accessories before the act. Yes, my dear bride, you 
are what the law terms a * paiticeps crirninis,’ and may look out for 
the sheriff before you are a week older.” 

44 And why all this, Mr. Dunscomb?” demanded the half-amused, 
half-frightened Mrs. McBrain. 

44 For aiding and abetling a prisoner in breaking jail. Mary 
Monson is off, beyond a question. . She lay down in Sarah’s draw- 
ing-room, pretending to be wearied, ten minutes since; and, has no 
doubt got through with her nap already, and is on her way to 
Canada, or Texas, or California, or some other out-of-the-way coun- 
try; Cuba, for aught I know.” 

44 Is this so, think you, Anna?” 

44 1 do not, mamma. So tar from believing Mary Monson to be 
flying to any out-of-the-way place, 1 have no doubt that we shall 
find her fast asleep on Mr. Dunscomb’s sofa.” 

44 Uncle Dunscomb’s §pfa, if you please, young lady.” 

“No, sir; 1 shall call you uncle no longer,” answered Anna,, 
blushing scarlet— 4 * until — until — ” 

44 You have a legal claim to the use ot the woid. Well, that will 
come in due time, 1 trust ; if not, it shall be my care to see you have a 
title to a still dearer appellation. There, widow — Mrs. McBiain, 1 
mean— 1 think you will do. But, seriously, child, you can not im- 
agine that Mary Monson means ever to leturn to her prison, there 
to be tried for life?” 

“If there is faith in woman, she does, sir; else would 1 not have 
exposed myself to the risk of accompanying her.” 

“ In what manner did you come to town, Anna?” asked the anx- 
ious mother. 44 Are you not now at the mercy of some driver of a 
hackney- coach ^or of some public cabman?” 

“ 1 understand that the carriage which was in waiting for us, half 
a mile from Biberry, is Mrs. Monson’s— ” 

“Mrs.!” interrupted Dunscomb. 44 Is she, then, a married 
woman?” 

Anna looked down, trembled, and was conscious of having be- 
trayed a secret. So very precious to herself had been the communica- 
tion of Marie Moulin on this point, that it was ever uppermost in 
her thoughts; and it had. now escaped her under an impulse she 
could not control. It was too late, however, to retreat; and a mo- 
ment’s reflection told her it would every way be better to tell all she 
knew, on this one point, at least. 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUB. 165 

This was soon done; for even Marie Moulin’s means of informa- 
tion were somewhat limited. This Swiss had formerly known the 
prisoner by another name; though what name, she would not reveal. 
This .was in Europe, where Marie had actually passed three years in 
this mysterious person’s employment Marie had even come to 
America, in consequence of this connection, at the death of her own 
mother; but. unable to find her former mistress, had taken service 
with Sarah Wilmeter. Mary Monson was single and unbetrothed 
when she left Europe. Such was Marie Moulin’s statement. But 
it was understood she was now married; though to whom, she 
could not say. If Anna Updyke knew more than this, she did not 
reveal it at that interview. 

“ Ah! Here is another case of a wife’s elopement from her hus- 
band,” interrupted Dunscomb, as soon as Anna reached this point 
in her narration; ” and 1 dare say something or other will be found 
in this wretched Code to uphold her in her disobedience. You have 
done well to marry, Mrs. McBrain; for, according to the modern 
opinions in these matters, instead ot providing yourself with a lord 
and master, you have only engaged an upper-servant.” 

” No true-hearted woman can ever look upon her husband in so 
degrading a light,” answered the bride, with spirit. 

” That will do tor three days; but wait to the end of three years. 
There are runaway wives enough, at this moment, roaming up and 
down the land, setting the laws of God and man at defiance, and 
jingling their purses, wheu they happen to have money, under their 
lawful husbands’ noses; ay, enough to setup a three-tailed bashaw! 
But this damnable Code will uphold them, in some shape or other, 
my life for it. One can’t endure her husband because he smokes; 
another finds fault with his not going to church but ODce a day; an- 
other quarrels with him for going three times; another says he has 
too much dinner-company; and another protests she can’t get a male 
friend inside of her house. All these ladies, forgetful as -they are 
of their highest earthly duties, forgetful as they areot woman’s very 
nature, are tfie models of divine virtues, and lay claim to the sym- 
pathies of mankind. They get those of fools; but prudent and re- 
flecting men shake their heads at such wandering deisses. ” 

“ You are severe on us women, Mr. Dunscomb," said the bride. 

“ Not on you, my dear Mrs. McBrain— never a syllable on you. 
But go on, child; 1 have had the case of one of these vagrant wives 
in my hands, and know how mistaken has been the disposition to 
pity her. Men lean to the woman’s side; but the frequency ot the 
abuse is beginning to open the eyes of the public. Go on, Anna 
dear, and let us hear it all — or all you have to tell us.” 

Very little remained to be related. Marie Moulin, herself, knew 
very little of that which had occurred since her separation from her 
present mistress in France. She did make one statement, however, 
that Anna had deemed very important; but which she felt bound to 
keep as a secret, in consequence of the injunctions received from the 
Swiss 

“ I should have a good deal to say about this affair,” observed 
Dunscomb, when his beautiful companion was done, “ did I believe 
that we shall find Mary Monson on our return to my house. In 
that case, 1 should say to you, my dear widow— Mrs. McBrain, I 


166 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


mean— the devil take that fellow Ned, he’ll have halt the women in 
town bearing his name before he is done. Well, Heaven b? praised ! 
he can neither marry me, nor give me a step-father, let him do his 
very best. There’s comfort in that consideration, at any rate.” 

“You were about to tell us what you would do,” put in the 
bride, slightly vexed, yet too well assured ot the counselor’s at- 
tachment to her husband to feel angry — “you must know how 
much value we all give to your advice.” 

“ 1 was about to say that Anna should not return to this mysteri- 
ous convict— no, she is not yet convicted, but she is indicted, and. 
that is something— but return she should not, were there the least 
chance of our finding her, on our return home. Let her go, then, 
and satisfy her curiosity, and pass the night with Sarah, who must 
be through with her first nap by this time.” 

Anna urged her mother to consent to this arrangement, putting 
forward her engagement with Mary Monson, not to desert her. 
McBrain driving to the door, from payiDg his last visit that night, 
his wife gave her assent to the proposition; the teuderest mother 
occasionally permitting another and more powerful feeling to 
usurp the place of maternal care. Mrs. McBrain, it must be admit- 
ted, thought more ot the bridegroom, sixty as. he was, than of her 
charming daughter; nor was she yet quite free from the awkward- 
ness that ever accompanies a new connection of this nature when 
there are grown-up children; more especially on the part of the 
female. Then Anna had communicated to her mother a most 
material circumstance, which it does not suit our present purpose to 
reveal. 

“ Now for a dozen pair of gloves that we do not find Mary Mon- 
son,” said the lawyer, as he walked smartly toward his own resi- 
dence, with Anna Updyke under his arm. 

“ Done!” cried the young lady— “ and you shall pay if you lose.” 

“As bound in honor. Peter ” — the gray-headed black who an- 
swered the summons to the door — “ will be glad enough to see us; 
for the old fellow is not accustomed to let his young rogue of a master 
in at midnight, with a charming young woman under his arm.” 

Anna Updyke was right. Mary Monson was in a deep sleep on 
the sofa. Bo profound was her rest, there was a hesitation about 
disturbing her; though twelve, the hour set for the return of the 
carriage to Biberry, was near. For a few minutes Dunscomb con- 
versed with his agreeable companion in his own library. 

“ If Jack knew of your being in the house, he would never for- 
give my not having him called.” 

“ I shall have plenty of occasions for seeing Jack,” returned the 
young lady, coloring. “You know how assiduous he is in this 
cause,- and how devoted he is to the prisoner.” 

“ Do not run away with any such notion, child; Jack is yours, 
heart and soul.” 

“ Hist— there Is the carriage; Mary must be called.” 

Away went Anna, laughing,* blushing, but with tears in her eyes. 
In a minute Mary Monson made her appearance, somewhat refreshed 
and calmed by her short nap. 

“Make no excuse for waking me, Anna,” said this unaccount- 


THE WAYS OF THE ’ HQUR. 167 

able woman. “We can both sleep on the road. The carriage is as 
easy as a cradle: and, luckily, the roads are quite good.” 

“ Still they lead to a prison, Mrs. Monson!” 

The prisoner smiled, and seemed to be lost in thought. It was 
the first time any of her new acquaintances had ever addressed her 
as a married woman; though Marie Moulin, with the exception of 
her first exclamation at their recent meeting, had invariably used 
the appellation of Madame. All this, however, was soon forgotten in 
the leave-taking. Dunscomb thought he had seldom seen a female 
of higher tone of mauners, or greater personal charms, than this sin- 
gular and mysterious young woman appeared to be, as she courtesied 
her adieu. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

What then avail impeachments, or the law’s 

Severest condemnation, while the queen 

May snatch him from the uplifted hand of justice? 

Earl of Essex. 

Perhaps the most certain proof that any people can give of a high 
moral condition, is in the administration of justice. Absolute in- 
fallibility is unattainable to men; but there are wide chasms in right 
and wrong, between the legal justice of one state of society and that 
of another. As the descendants of Englishmen, we in this country 
are apt to ascribe a higher tone of purity to the courts of the mother 
country, than to those of any other European nation. In this we 
may be right without inferring the necessity of believing that the 
ermine of England is spotless; for it can never be forgotten that 
Bacon and Jeffries once filled ner highest judicial seats, to say 
nothing of many others, whose abuses of their trusts have doubt- 
less been lost in their comparative obscurity. Passing from the 
parent to its offspring, the condition of Americau justice, so far 
as it is dependent on the bench, is a profound moral anomaly. It 
would seem that every known expedient of man has been resorted 
to, to render it corrupt, feeble, and ignorant; yet he would be a 
hardy, not to say an audacious commentator, who should presume 
to affirm that it is not entitled to stand in the very foremost ranks 
of human integrity. 

Ill paid, without retiring pensions, with nothing to expect in the 
way of family and hereditary honors and dignities; with little, in 
short, either in possession or in prospect, to give any particular in- 
ducement to be honest, it is certain that, as a whole, the judges of 
this great republic, may lay claim to be classed among the most 
upright of which history furnishes any accounts. Unhappily, pop- 
ular caprice, and popular ignorance, have been brought to bear on 
the selection of the magistrates, of late; and it is easy to predict the 
result, which, like that on the militia, is soon to pull down even 
this all-important machinery of society to the level of the com- 
mon mind. 

.Not only have the obvious and well-earned inducements to keep 
men honest — competence, honors, and security in office-been reck- 
lessly thrown away by the open hand of popular delusion, but all 


168 


THE WAYS OF THR HOUR. 


the minor expedients, by which those who can not think might be 
made to feel, have J bcen laid aside, leaving the machinery of justice 
as naked as the hand. Although the colonial system was never 
elaborated in these last particulars, theie were some of its useful 
and 'respectable remains, down as late as the .commencement of the 
present century. The sheri ft appeared with his sword, the judge 
was escorted to and from the court-house to his private dwelling 
with some show of attention and respect, leaving a salutary impres- 
sion of authority on tne ordinary observer. All this has dis- 
appeared. The judge slips into the county town almost unknown; 
lives at an inn amid a crowd of lawyers, witnesses, suitors, jurors 
and horse-shedders, as Timms calls them; finds his way to the 
bench as best he may; and seems to think that the more work he 
can do in the shortest time is the one great purpose ot his appoint- 
ment. Nevertheless, these men, as yet , are suiprisingly incorrupt 
and intelligent. How long it will remain so, no one can predict; 
if it be for a human life, however, the working ot the problem will 
demonstrate the fallibility of every appreciation of human motives. 
One bad consequence of the depreciation of the office of a magis- 
trate, however, has long been apparent, in the lessening of the in- 
fluence of the judge on the juries; the power that alone renders the 
latter institution even tolerable. This is putting an irresponsible, 
usually an ignorant, and often corrupt arbiter, in the judgment-seat, 
in lieu of the man of high qualities for which it was alone intended. 
•The circuit and oyer and terminer for Dukes presented nothing 
novel in its bench, its bar, its jurors, and we might add its wit- 
nesses. The first was a cool-headed, dispassionate man, with a 
very respectable amount of legal learning and experience, and a per- 
fectly fair character. No one suspected him ot acting wrong from 
evil motives; and when he did err, it was ordinarily from the press- 
ure of business; though, occasionally, he was mistaken, because the 
books could not foresee ever} r possible phase of a case. The bar 
was composed of plain, hard-working men, materially above the 
level of Timms, except in connection with mother- wit; better edu- 
cated, better mannered, and, as a whole, of materially higher origin; 
though, as a body, neither profoundly learned nor of refined deport- 
ment. Nevertheless, these persons had a very fair portion of all the 
better qualities of the Noithern professional men. They were 
shrewd, quick in the application of their acquired knowledge, ready 
in their natural resources, and had that general aptitude for affairs 
that probably is the fruit of a practice that includes all the different 
branches of the profession. Here and there was a usurer and ex- 
tortioner among them; a fellow who disgraced his calling by run- 
ning up unnecessary bills of cost, by evading the penal statutes 
passed to prevent abuses of this nature, and by cunning attempts 
to obtain more lor the use of his money than the law sanctioned. 
Buts such was not the general character ot the Dukes County bar, 
which was rather to be censured for winking at irregular proceed- 
ings out of doors, for browbeating witnesses, and "for regarding 
the end so intensely as not always to be particular in reference to 
the means, than for such gross and positively illegal and oppressive 
measures as those just mentioned. As for the jurors they were 
just what that ancient -institution might be supposed to be, 'in a 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


169 


country where so many of the body of the people are liable to be 
summoned. An unusually large proportion of these men, when all 
the circumstances arfe considered, were perhaps as fit to be thus 
employed as could be obtained from the body of the community of 
any country on earth; but a very serious number were altogether 
unsuited to perform the delicate duties of their station. Fortunately 
the ignorant are very apt to be influenced by the more intelligent, 
in cases of this nature; and by this exercise of a very natural 
power, less injustice is committed than might otherwise occur. 
Here, however, is the opening for the “ horse-shedding ” and “ pil- 
lowing,” of which Timms has spoken, and of which so much 
use is made around every country court-house in the State. This 
is the crying evil of the times; and, taken in connection with the 
enormous abuse which is rendering a competition in news a regu- 
lar, money-getling occupation, one that threatens to set at defiance 
all laws, principles and facts. 

A word remains to be said of the witnesses. Perhaps the rarest 
thing connected with the administration of justice all over the world, 
is an intelligent, perfectly impartial, clear-beaded, discriminating 
witness; owe who distinctly knows all he says, tully appreciates the 
effect of his words on the jury, and who has the disposition to 
submit what he knows solely to the law and the evidence. Men 
of experience are of opinion that an oath usually extracts the truth. 
"We think so too, but it is truth as the witness understands it; facts 
as he has seen them; and opinions that, unconsciously to himself, 
have been warped by reports, sneers and malice. In a country of 
popular sway like this, there is not one man in a thousand, probably, 
who has sufficient independence of mifad, or sufficient moral courage, 
to fancy be has seen even a fact, if it be of importance, differently 
from what the body of the community has seen it; and nothing is 
more common than to find witnesses coloring their testimony, less- 
ening its force by feeble statements, or altogether abandoning the 
truth, under this pressure from without, in cases of a nature and 
magnitude to awake a strong popular feeling. It is by no means 
uncommon, indeed, to persuade one class of men, by. means ot this 
influence, that they did not see that which actually occurred before 
their eyes, or that they did see that w 7 hich never had an existence. 

Under no circumstances do men congregate with less meritorious 
motives than in meeting in and around a court ot justice. The ob- 
ject is victory, and the means of obtaining it will not always bear 
the light. The approaching Circuit and Oyer and Terminer of 
Dukes was no exception to the rule; a crowd of evil passions, of 
sinister practices, and of plausible pretenses, being arrayed against 
justice and the law in two thirds of the causes on the calendar. 
Then it was that Timms and Saucy Williams, or Dick Williams, as 
he was familarly termed by his associates, came out in their strength, 
playing off against each other the out-door practices ot the profes- 
sion. The first indication that the former now got of the very se- 
rious character of the slruggle that was about to take place between 
them was in the extraordinary civility ot saucy Williams when they 
met in the bar-room of the inn they each frequented, and which had 
Jong been the arena of their antagonistical wit and practices. 

“1 never saw you look better, Timms,” said Williams, in the 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


170 

most cordial manner imaginable; “ on the whole, 1 do not remem- 
ber to have ever'seen you looking so well. You grow younger in- 
stead of older, every day of your life. By the way, do you intend 
to move on Butterfield against Town this circuit?” 

“ I should be glad to do it_if you are ready. Cross-notices have 
been given, you know.” 

Williams knew this very well; and he also knew that it had been 
done to entitle the respective parties to costs, in the event of any- 
thing occurring to give either side an advantage; the cause being 
one of those nuts out of which practitioners are very apt to extract 
the whole of the kernel before they are done with it. 

“ Yes, I am aware of -that, and I believe we are quite ready. I 
see that Mr. Town is here, and i observe several of his witnesses; 
but I have so much business, 1 have no wish to try a long slander 
cause; words spoken in heat, and never thought of again; but to 
make a profit of them.” 

“ You are employed against us in the murder case, 1 hear?” 

“ 1 rather think the friends of the deceased so regard it; but I 
have scarcely had time to look at the testimony before the coroner.” 
This was a deliberate mystification, and Timms perfectly understood 
it as such, well knowing that the other had given the outdoor work 
of the case nearly all of his time for the kst fortnight — “ and 1 
don’t like to move in one of these big matters without knowing 
what 1 am about. Your senior counsel has not yet arrived from 
town, I believe?” 

“ He can not be here until Wednesday, having to argue a great 
insurance case before the Superior Court to-day and to morrow.” 

This conversation occurred after the grand jury had been charged, 
the petit jurors sworn, and the judge had several motions tor cor- 
recting the calendar, laying causes over, etc., etc. Two hours later, 
the district attorney being absent in his room, engaged with the 
grand jury, Williams arose, and addressed the court, which had 
just called the first civil cause on the calendar. 

“May it please the court,” he said, coolly, but with the grave 
aspect of a man who felt he was dealing with a very serious mat- 
ter—” there is a capital indictment depending, a case of arson and 
murder, which it is the intention of the State to call on at once.” 

The judge looked still more grave than the counsel, and it was 
easy to see that he deeply regretted it should fall to his lot to try 
such an issue. He leaned forward, with an elbow on the very primi- 
tive sort of desk with which he was furnished by the public, in- 
dented it with the point of his knife, and appeared to be passing in 
review such of the circumstances of. this important case as he had 
become acquainted with, judicially. We say “ judicially;” for it is 
not an easy thing for either judge, counsel, or jurors, in the state of 
society that now exists, to keep distinctly in their minds that which 
has been obtained under legal evidence, from that which floats 
about the community on the thousand tongues of rumor — fact from 
fiction. Nevertheless, the respectable magistrate whose misfortune 
it was to preside on this very serious occasion, was a man to per- • 
form all his duty to the point where public opinion or popular 
clamor is encountered. The last is a bugbear that few have moral 
courage to face; and. the evil consequences are visible, hourly. 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


171 


daily, almost incessantly, in most of the interests of life. Thi& 
popular feeling is the great moving lever of the republic; the 
wronged being placed beneath the fulcrum, while the outer arm of 
the engine is loaded with numbers. Thus it is that we see the old- 
est families among us quietly robbed of their estates, after genera- 
tions of possession; the honest man proscribed; the knave and 
demagogue deified; mediocrity advanced to high places; and talents 
and capacity held in abe 3 r ance, if not actually trampled under foot. 
Let J he truth be said: these are evils to which each year gives addi- 
tional force, until the tyranny of the majority has taken a form 
and combination which, unchecked, must speedily place every per- 
sonal right at the mercy of plausible, but wrong-doing, popular 
combinations. 

“ Bas the prisoner been arraigned?” asked the judge. “ 1 remem- 
ber nothing of the sort.” 

“No, your honor,” answered Timms, now rising for the first 
time in the disclission,* and looking about him as if to scan the 
crowd tor witnesses. “ The prosecution does not yet know the plea 
we shall put in.” 

“ You are retained for the prisoner, Mr. Timms?” 

“ Yes, sir; I appear in her behalf. But Mr. Dunscomb is also re- 
tained, and will be engaged in the New York Superior Court until 
Wednesday, in an insurance case of great magnitude.” 

“ No insurance case can be of the magnitude of a trial for life,” 
returned Williams. “ The justice of the State must be vindicated, 
and the person of the citizen protected.” 

This sounded well, and it caused many a head in the crowd, 
which contained both witnesses and jurors, to nod with approbation. 
It is true, that every thoughtful and observant man must have had 
many occasions to observe how fallacious such a declaration is, in 
truth: but it sounded well, and the ears of the multitude are always 
open to flattery. 

“We have no wish to interfere with the justice of the State, or 
with the protection of the citizen,” answered Timms, lookinground 
to note the effect of his words— “ our object is to defend the inno- 
cent: and the great and powerful community of New York will find 
more pleasure in seeing an accused acquitted than in seeing fifty 
criminals condemned.” 

This sentiment sounded quite as well as that of Williams’s, and 
Leads were again nodded in approbation. It told particularly wed in 
a paragraph of a newspaper that Timms had engaged to publish 
what he considered his best remarks. 

“ It seems to me, gentlemen,” interposed, the judge, who under- 
stood the meaning oi thesd ad captandum remarks perfectly well, 
“ that your conversation is premature at least, if not altogether im- 
proper. Nothing of this nature should be said until the prisoner 
lias been arraigned.” 

“ I submit, your honor, and acknowledge the justice of the re- 
proof,” answered Williams. “I now move the court, on behalf 
of the district attorney, that Mary Monson, who stands indicted for 
murder and arson, be arraigned, and her pleas entered — ” 

“ 1 could wish this step might be delayed until 1 can hear from 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


m 

the leading counsel for the defense,” objected Timms, “ which must 
now occur in the course of a very few hours.” 

“ 1 perceive that the prisoner is a female,” said the judge,, in a 
tone of regret. 

“ Yes, your honor, she is, and young and handsome, they tell 
me,” answered Williams; ” for 1 have never been able to get a sight 
of her. She is too much of a great lady to be seen at a grate, by all 
1 can learn ol her and her proceedings. Plays on the harp, sir; has 
a Fiench valet de chambre , or something of that sort — ” 

“ This is all wrong, Mr. Williams, and must be checked,” again 
interposed the judge, though very mildly; for, while his experience 
taught Him that the object of such remarks was to create prejudice, 
and his conscience prompted him to put an end to a proceeding so 
unrighteous, he stood in so much awe of this particular counsel, 
who had half a dozen presses at his command, that it required a strong 
inducement to bring him out, as he ought to be, in opposition to any 
of his more decided movements. As for the community, with the 
best intentions as a whole, it stood passive under this gross wrong. 
What is “ everybody’s business ” is literally nobody’s business,” 
when the public virtue is the great moving power; the upright pre- 
ferring their ease to everything else, and the ill-disposed manifest- 
ing the ceaseless activity of the wicked. All the ancient barriers to 
this species of injustice, which have been erected by the gathered 
wisdom of our fathers and the experience of ages, have been thrown 
down by the illusions of a seeming liberty, and the whole machinery 
of justice is left very much at the mercy of an outside public opin- 
ion, which, in itself, is wielded by a few of the worst men in the 
country. These are sober truths, as a close examination will show 
to any one who may choose to enter into the investigation of the 
ungrateful subject. It is not what is said, we very well know; but 
it is what is done. 

Williams received the mild rebuke of the judge like one who felt 
his position; paying very little respect to its spirit or its ietter. He 
knew his own power, and understood perfectly well that this par- 
ticular magistrate was soon to run for a new tei*m of office, and 
might be dealt with more freely on that account. 

” i know it is very wrong, your honor— very wrong ” — rejoined 
the wily counsel to what had been said—” so wrong, that 1 regard 
it as an insult to the State. When a person is capitally indicted, 
man or woman, it is his or her bounden duty to put all overboard, 
that there may be no secrets. The harp was once a sacred instru- 
ment, and it is highly improper to introduce it into our jails and 
criminals’ cells—” 

“ There is no criminal as yet— no crime can be established with- 
out proof, and the verdict of twelve good men and true,” inter- 
rupted Timms — “ I object, therefore, to the learned counsel’s re- 
marks, and — ” 

” Gentlemen, gentlemen,” put in the judge, a little more pointedly 
than in his former rebuke — ” this is all wrong, 1 repeat.” 

“You perceive, my brother Timms,” rejoined the indomitable 
Williams, ” the court is altogether against you. This is not a coun- 
try of lords and ladies, fiddles and harps, but of the people ; and 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 173 

when the people find a bill for a capital pffense, capital care should 
be taken not to give more offense.” 

Williams had provided himself with a set of supporters that are 
common enough in the courts, whose business it was to grin, and 
sneer, and smile, and look knowing at particular hits of the counsel, 
and otherwise to back up his wit, and humor, and logic, by the agency 
of sympathy. This expedient is getting to be quite common, and is 
constantly practiced in suits that relate, in any manner, to politics 
or political men. It is not so common, certainly, in trials for life; 
though it may be, and has been, used wilh effect even on such se- 
rious occasions. The influence ot these wily demonstrations, which 
are made to have the appearance of public opinion, is very great on 
the credulous and ignorant; men thus narrowly gifted invariably 
looking around them to find support in the common mind. 

The hits of Williams told, to Tirnms’s great annoyance; nor did 
he know exactly how to parry them. Had he been the assailant him- 
self, lie could have wielded the weapons of his antagonist with 
equal skill; but his dexterity was very much confined to the offen- 
sive in cases of this nature; for he perfectly comprehended all the 
prejudices on which it'was necessary to act, while he possessed but 
a very narrow knowledge of the means of correcting them. Never- 
theless, it would not do to let the prosecution close the business of 
the day with so much of the air of triumph, and the indomitable 
attorney^ made another effort to place his client more favorably be- 
fore the public eye. 

“ The harp is a most religious instrument,” he coolly observed, 
“ and it has no relation to the violin, or any light and frivolous 
piece of music. David used it as the instrument of praise, and why 
should not a person who stands charged—” 

” 1 have told you, gentlemen, that all this is irregular, and can 
not be permitted,” cried the judge, with a little more of the appear- 
ance of firmness than he had yet exhibited. 

The truth was, that he stood less in fear of Timms than of 
Williams; the connection of the last with the reporters being known 
to be much the most extensive. But Timms knew his man, and 
understood very well what the committal of counsel had got to be, 
under the. loose notions of liberty that have grown up in the country 
within the last twenty years. Time was, and that at no remote 
period, when the lawyer who had been thus treated for indecorum 
at the bar would have been a disgraced man, and would have ap- 
pealed in vain to the community tor sympathy; little or none would 
lie have received. Men then understood that the law was their 
master, established by themselves, and was to be respected accord- 
ingly. But that feeling is in a great measure extinct. Liberty is 
every hour getting to be more and more personal; its concentration 
consisting in rendering every man his own legislator, his own 
judge, and his own juror. It is- monarchical and aristocratic, and 
all that is vile and dangerous, to see power exorcised by any btit the 
people; those whom the constitution and the laws have set apart ex- 
pressly to discharge a delegated authority being obliged, by clamors 
sustained by all the arts of cupidity and fraud, to defer to the pass- 
ing opinions of the hour. No one knew this better than Timms, 
who had just as lively a recollection as his opponent that this very 


174 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUJR. 


judge was to come before the people, in the next autumn, as a can- 
didate for re-election. The great strain of American foresight was 
consequently applied to this man’s conscience, who, overworked 
and under-paid, was expected to rise above the weaknesses of 
humanity, as a sort of sublimated political theory that is getting to 
be much in fashion, and which, if true, would supersede the neces- 
sity of any court or any government at all. Timms knew this well, 
and was not to be restrained by one who was thus stretched, as it 
might be, on the tenler-hooks of political uncertainty. 

“ Yes, your honor,” retorted this indomitable individual, ” 1 am 
fully aware of its impropriety, and was just as much so when the 
counsel for the prosecution was carrying it on to the injury of my 
client; 1 might say almost unchecked, it not encouraged.” 

“ The court did its best to stop Mr. Williams, sir; and must do 
the same to keep you within the proper limits of practice. Unless 
these improprieties are restrained 1 shall coniine the counsel for the 
State to the regular officer, and assign new counsel to the accused, 
as from the court.” 

Both Williams and Timms looked amused at this menace, neither 
having the smallest notion ihe judge dare put such a threat in execu- 
tion. Wbat! presume to curb licentiousness when it chose to as- 
sume the aspect of human rights? This was an act behind the age, 
more especially in a country in which liberty is so fast getting to be 
all means, with so very little regard to the end. 

A desultory conversation ensued, when it was finallv settled that 
the trial must be postponed until the arrival of the counsel expected 
from town. From the beginning of the discussion, Williams knew 
such must be the termination of that day’s work; but he had ac- 
complished two great objects by his motion. In the first place, by 
conceding delay to the accused it placed the prosecution on ground 
where a similar favor might be asked, should it be deemed ex- 
pedient. This resisting of motions for delay is a common ruse of 
the bar, since it places the party whose rights are seemingly post- 
poned in a situation to demand a similar concession. Williams 
knew that his case was ready as related to his brief, the testimony, 
and all that could properly be produced in court, but he thought it 
might be strengthened out of doors, among the jurors and" wit- 
nesses. We say, the witnesses, because even this class of men get 
their impressions, quite frequently, as much from what they sub- 
sequently hear, as from what they have seen and known. A good 
reliable witness, who relates no more than he actually knows, con- 
ceals nothing, colors nothing, and leaves a perfectly fair impression 
of the truth, is perhaps the rarest of all the parties concerned in the 
administration of justice. No one understood this better than 
Williams; and his agents were, at that very moment, actively em- 
ployed in endeavoring to persuade certain* individuals that they 
knew a great deal more of the facts connected with the murders 
than the truth would justify. This was not done openly or directly; 
not in a way to alarm the consciences or pride of those who were to 
be duped, but by the agency of hints, and suggestions, and plausible 
reasonings, and all the other obvious devices, by means of whch 
the artful and unprincipled are enabled to act on the opinions of the 
credulous and inexperienced. 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


175 

While all these secret engines were at work in the streets of Bi- 
berry the external machinery of justice was set in motion with the 
usual forms, leaked, but business-like, the blind goddess was in- 
voked with what is terme t “republican simplicity,” one of-the 
great principles of which, in some men’s estimation, is to get the 
maximum of work at the minimum of cost. We are no advocates 
for the senseless parade and ruthless expenditure— ruthless, because 
extracted from the means of the poor— with which the governments 
•of Ihe old world have invested their dignity; and we believe that 
the reason of men may be confided in, in managing these matters, 
to a certain exlent; though not to the extent that it would stem to 
be the fashion of the American theories, to be desirable. Wigs of 
all kinds, ewe n when there is a deficiency ot hair, we hold in utter 
detestation; and we shall maintain that no more absurd scheme of 
olothing the human countenance with terror was ever devised than to 
clothe it with flax. Nevertheless, as comfort, decency and taste unite 
in recommending clothing of some sort or other, we do not see why 
the judicial lunctionary should not have his appropriate attire as 
well as the soldier, the sailor, or the priest. It does not necessarily 
follow that extravagances are to be imitated if we submit .to, this 
practice; though we incline to the opinion that a great deal of the 
nakedness of “ republican simplicity,” which has got to be a sort of 
political idol in the land, has its origin in a spirit that denounces 
the past as a species of moral sacrifice to the present time. 

Let all this be as it may, it is quite certain that “ republican sim- 
plicity the slang lever by means of which the artful move the 
government — has left the administration ot justice among us, so far 
as externals are concerned, as naked as may be. Indeed, so much 
have the judges become exposed to sinister influences, by means of 
the intimacies with which they are invested by means of “ republi- 
can simplicity,” that it has been found expedient to make a special 
provision against undue modes of approaching their ears, all of 
which would have been far more efficiently secured by doubling 
their salaries, making a respectable provision for old age in the way 
of pensions, and surrounding them with such forms as would keep 
the evil disposed at reasonable distance. Neither Timms nor “ saucy 
"Williams,” however, reasoned in this fashion. They were, in a 
high degree, practical men, and saw things as they are; not as they 
ought to be. Little was either troubled with theories, regrets, or 
principles. It was enough for each that fie was familiar with the 
workings of the system under which he lived; and which he knew 
how to pervert in a way the most iikely to effect his own purposes. 

The reader may be surprised at the active pertinacity with which 
Williams pursued one on trial for her life; a class of persons with 
whom the bar usually professes to deal tenderly and in mercy. But 
the fact was that he had been specially retained by the next of kin, 
who had large expectations from the abstracted hoards of his aunt; 
and that the fashion of the day had enabled him to achieve such a 
■writ per cent bargain with his client, as caused his own compensa- 
tion altogether to depenti on the measure of his success. Should 
Mary Monson be sentenced, to the gallows it was highly probable 
Jier revelations would put the wronged in the way of being righted, 
when this limb of the law would, in all probability, come in for a 


176 


THE WATS OF THE HOUR. 


full share of the recovered gold. How different all this was from 
the motives and conduct of Dunscomb, the reader will readily per- 
ceive; for, while the profession in this conntry abounds with Wilh- 
iamses and Timmses, men of the highest tone of feeling, the fairest* 
practice, and the clearest perceptions of what is light, are by no* 
means strangers to the bar. 


. CHAPTER XY1I1. 

Thou hast already racked me with thy stay; 

. Therefore require me not to ask thee twice: 

Reply at once to all. What is concluded? 

Mourning Bride, 

During the interval between the occurrence of the scene in court 
that has just been related, and the appearance of Dunscomb at 
Biberry, the community was rapidly taking sides on the subject of 
the guilt or innocence of Mary Monson. The windows of the jail 
were crowded all day; throngs collecting there to catch glimpses of 
the extraordinary female, who was rightly enough reported to be 
living in a species of luxury in so unusual a place, and who was 
known to play on an instrument that the popular mind was a good 
deal disposed to regard as sacred. As a matter of course, a hundred 
stories were in circulation, touching the character, history, sayings, 
and doiugs of this remarkable person, that had no foundation what- 
ever in truth; for it is an infiimity of human nature to circulate and 
place its belief in falsehoods of this sort ; and more especially off 
human nature as it is exhibited in a country where care has been 
taken to stimulate the curiosity of the vulgar, without exactly 
placing them in a condition to appease its longings, either intelli- 
gently or in a very good taste. 

This interest would have been manifested, in such a case, had 
there been no particular moving cause; but the secret practices ot 
'Williams and Timms greatly increased its intensity, aDd was bring- 
ing the population of Dukes to a state of excitement that was very 
little favorable to an impartial administration of justice. Discus- 
sions had taken place at every corner, and in all the bar-rooms, and 
many were the alleged facts connected with the murders, which had 
their sole existence in rumor, that was adduced in the heat of argu- 
ment, or to make out a supposititious case. All this time, Williams 
was either in court, attending closely to his different causes, or was 
seen passing between the court-house and the tavern, with bundles 
of papers under his arms, like a man absorbed in business. Timms 
played a very similar part, though he found leisure to hold divers 
conferences with several ot his confidential agents. Testimony was 
his aim; and. half a dozen times, when lie fancied himself on the 
point of establishing something new and important, the whole of 
the ingenious fabric he had reared came tumbling about liig ears, in 
consequence of some radical defect in the foundation. 

Such was the state of things on the evening of Wednesday, the 
day preceding that which had been set down for the trial, when the 
staae arrived bringing “ Squire Dunscomb,*’ his carpet-bags, his- 
trunk, and his books. McBrain shortly after drove up in his own 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 177 

carriage; and Anna was soon in her mother’s arms. The excite- 
ment, so general in the place, had naturally enough extended to 
these females; and Mrs. McBrain and her daughter were soon 
closeted, talking over the affair of Mary Monson. 

About eight that evening, Dunscomb and Timms were busvv 
looking over minutes of testimony, briefs, and other written docu- 
ments that were connected with the approaching trial. Mrs. Hor- 
ton had reserved ihebest room in' her house tor (his distinguished 
counsel; an apartment in a wing that was a good deal removed 
from the noise and bustle of a leading inn, during a circuit. Here 
Dunscomb had been duly installed, and here he early set up “ his 
traps,” as he termed his flesh -brushes, sponges, briefs, and calfskin- 
covered volumes. Two tallow candles threw a dim, lawyer like 
light on the scene; while unrolled paper-curtains shut out as much 
of night as such an imperfect screen could exclude. The odor of 
cigars— excellent Havanas, by the way— w*as fragrant in the places 
and one of the little fountains of smoke was stuck knowingly in a 
corner of the eminent counsel’s mouth, while Timms had garnished 
his skinny lips with the short stump of a pipe. Neither said any- 
thing; one of the parties presenting documents that the other read 
in silence. Such was the state of matters, when a slight tap at the 
door was succeeded by the unexpected appearance of ” sadcy Will- 
iams.” Timms started, gathered together all his papers with the 
utmost c;ire, and awaited the explanation of this unlooked-for visits 
with the most lively curiosity. .Dunscomb, on the other hand, re- 
ceived his guest with urbanity, and like one who felt that the 
wrangling of the bar, in which, by the way, he had too much self- 
respect and good temper to indulge, had no necessary connection 
with the courtesies of private life. 

Williams had scarcely a claim superior to those of Timms, to be 
considered a gentleman; though he had the advantage of having 
been what is termed liberally educated— a phrase of very doubtful 
import, whnn put to the test of old-fashioned notions on such sub- 
jects. In manners, he had the defects, and we may add the merits, 
of the school in which he had been educated. All that lias been 
said of Timms on this subject, in the way of censure, was equally 
applicable to Williams; but the last possessed self-command, an 
admirable reliance on his- own qualities, which would have fitted 
him, as regards this one quality, to be an emperor. Foreigners 
wonder at the self-possession of Americans in the presence of the 
great; and it is really one of the merits of the institution that it 
causes every person to feel that he is a man, and entitled to receive 
the treatment due to a being so high in the scale of earthly crea- 
tions. It is true, that this feeling often degenerates into a vulgar 
and oversensitive jealousy, frequently rendering its possessor exact- 
ing and ridiculous; but, on the whole, the effect is manly, not to 4 
say ennobling. 

Now, Williams was self-possessed by nature, as well as by asso- 
ciation and education. Though keenly alive to the differences and 
chances of fortune, he never succumbed to mere rank and wealth. 
Intriguing by disposition, not to say by education, he could affect 
a deference he did not feel; but, apart from the positive conse- 
quences of power, he was not to be daunted by the presence of the 


178 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUE. 


most magnificent sovereign who ever reigned. No wonder, then, 
that he felt quite at home in the company of his present host, 
though fully aware that he was one of the leading members of the 
New York bar. As a proof of this independence may be cited the 
fact that he had no sooner paid his salutations and been invited to 
be seated, than he deliberately selected a cigar from the open box of 
Dunscomb, lighted it, took a chair, raised one leg coolly on the 
corner ot a table, and began to smoke. 

” The calendar is a little crowded,” observed this free-and-easy 
visitor, “ ^.nd is likely to carry us over into the middle of next week. 
Are you retained in Daniels against Fireman’s Insurance?” 

“Lam not — a brief was offered by the plaintiff, but 1 declined 
taking it.” 

“A liitle conscientious, 1 suppose. Well, 1 leave all the sin ot 
my suits on the shoulders of my clients. It is bad enough to listen 
to their griefs, without being called on to smart for them. 1 have 
heard you are in Cogswell against Davidson?” 

“ In that cause 1 have been retained. 1 may as well say, at once, 
we intend to move it on.” 

‘‘It’s ot no great moment — if you beat us at the circuit, our turn 
will come on execution.” 

‘‘ 1 believe, Mr. Williams, your clients have a knack at gaining 
the day in that mode. It is of no great interest to me, however, as 
1 rarely take the management of a cause after it quits the courts.” 

“ How do you like the Code, brother Dunscomb?” 

“ Damnable, sir. I am too old, in the first place, to like change. 
Then change irom bad to worse is adding folly to imbecility. The 
Common Law practice had its faults, 1 allow; but this new system 
has no merits.” 

“ 1 do not go as far as that; and I rather begin to like the new 
plan of remuneration. We are nothing out of pocket, and some- 
times are a handsome sum in. You defend Mary Monson?” 

Timms felt assured that his old antagonist had now reached the 
case that had really brought him to the room. He fidgeted, looked 
eagerly round to see that no stray paper could fall beneath the 
hawk-like eye of the other party, and then sat in comparative com- 
posure, waiting the result. 

“ 1 do,” Dunscomb quietly replied; ‘‘ and 1 shall do it con amore 
— 1 suppose you know what that means, Mr. Williams?” 

A sarcastic smile passed over the steeled countenance of the other, 
his appearance being literally sardonic for an instant. 

‘‘1 presume 1 do. We know enough Latin in Dukes to get 
along with such a quotation; though our friend Timms here de- 
spises the classics. 4 Con amore ’ means, in this instance, a ‘ lover’s 
zeal,’ I suppose; for they tell me that all who approach the criminal 
• submit to her power to charm.” 

“The accused, if you please,” put in the opposing attorney; 
“ but no criminal, until the word * guilty ’ has been pronounced.” 

“ 1 am convicted. They say you are to be the happy rnan, 
Timms, in the event of an acquittal. It is reported all over the 
county, that you are to become Mr. Monson as a reward tor your 
services; and if half that 1 hear be true, you will deserve her, with 
a good estate in the bargain.” 


THE WA*S OF THE HOUR. 


179 

Here Williams laughed heartily at his own wit; but Dunscomb 
looked grave, while his associate counsel looked angiy. In point 
of fact the nail had been hit on the head; and consciousness lighted 
the spirit within, with its calm, mild glow. The senior counsel 
was too proud and too dignified to make any reply; but Timms 
was troubled with no such feeling. 

“ If there are any such rumors in old Dukes,” retorted the last, 
“ it will not need mesmerism to discover their author. In my opin- 
ion, the people ought to carry on their suits in a spirit of liberality 
and justice; and not in a vindictive, malicious temper.” 

“We are all of the same way of thinking,” answered Williams, 
with a sneer. “ I consider it liberal to give you a handsome young 
woman with a full purse; though no one can say how, or by whom, 
it has been filled. By the way, Mr. Dunscomb, 1 am instructed to 
make a proposal to you; and as Timms. is in the court, this may be 
.as good a moment as another to present it for consideration. My 
offer is from the nephew, next of kin, and sole heir of the late Peter 
Goodwin; by whom, as you probably know, I am retained. This 
gentleman is well assured that his deceased relatives had a large sum 
in gold by them, at the time of the murders — ” 

“ No verdict has yet shown that there have been any murders at 
all,” interrupted Timms. 

“We have th^ verdict of the inquest, begging your pardon, 
brother Timms— that is something, surely; though not enough, 
quite likely, to convince your mind. But, to proceed with my prop- 
osition: — My client is well assured that such a secret fund existed. 
He also knows that your client, gentlemen, is flush of money, and 
money in gold coins that correspond with many pieces that have 
been seen by different individuals in the possession of our aunt — ” 

“ Ay, eagles and half-eagles,” interrupted Timms— “ a resem- 
blance that comes from the stamp of the mint.” 

“ Go on with your proposition, Mr. Williams ” — said Dunscomb. 

“We offer to withdraw all our extra counsel, myself included, 
and to leave the case altogether with the State, which is very much 
the same thing as an acquittal; provided you will return to us five 
thousand dollars in this gold coin. Not pay, for thai might be 
compounding a felony; but return .” 

“ There could be no compounding a felony, if the indictment be 
not quashed, but traversed,” said the senior counsel for the de- 
fense. 

“ Very true; but we prefer the word ‘ return.’ That leaves every- 
thing clear, and will enable us to face the county. Our object is to 
get our rights— let the State take care of its justice for itself.” 

“ *ou can hardly expect that such a proposition should be ac- 
cepted, Williams?” 

“ I am not so sure of that, Timms; life is sweeter than money 
even. 1 should like to hear the answer of your associate, however. 
Vou, 1 can see, have no intention of lessening the marriage portion, 
if it can be helped.” 

Such side-hits were so common in court, as between these 
worthies, that neither thought much of them out of court. But 
Williams gave a signal proof of the acuteness of his observation, 
when he expressed a wish to know in what light his proposal was 


180 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


viewed by Dunscomb. That learned gentleman evidently paid more 
respect to the offer than had been manifested by his associate; and 
now sat silently ruminating on its nature. Thus directly appealed* 
to, he felt the necessity of giving some sort of an answer. 

“ You have come expressly to make this proposition to us, Mr. 
Williams?”. Dunscomb demanded. 

“ To be frank with you, sir, such is the main object of my visit.” 

“ Of course it is sanctioned by your client, and you speak by 
authority?” 

‘‘It is fully sanctioned by my client, who would greatly prefer 
the plan; and 1 act directly by his written instructions. Nothing 
short of these would induce me to make the proposition.” 

‘'Very well, sir. Will an answer by ten o’clock this evening 
meet your views?” 

‘‘ Perfectly’ so. An afaswer at any time between this and the sit- 
ting of the court to-morrow morning will fully meet our views. 
The terms, however, cart not be diminished. Owing to the short- 
ness of the time, it may be well to understand that .” 

“ Then, Mr. Williams, 1 ask a little time for reflection and con- 
sultation. We may meet again to-night.” 

The other assented, rose, coolly helped himself to another cigar, 
and had got as far as the door, when an expressive gesture from 
Timms induced him to pause. 

“ Let us understand each other,” said the last, with emphasis. 
“ Is this a truce, with a complete cessation of hostilities; or is it 
only a negotiation to be carried on in the midst of war?” 

“ 1 hardly comprehend your meaning, Mr. Timms. The question 
is simply one of taking certain forces — allied forces, they may be 
called — from the field, and leaving you to contend onty with the 
main enemy. There need be nothing said of a truce, since nothing 
further can be done until the court opens.” 

“ That may do very well, Williams, for those that haven't prac- 
ticed in Dukes as long as myself; but it will not do forme. There 
is an army of reporters here, at this moment: and 1 am afraid that 
the allies of whom you speak have whole corps of skirmishers.” 

Williams maintained a countenance so unmoved that even the 
judicious Timms was a little shaken; while Dunscomb, who bad all 
the reluctance of a gentleman to believe in an act of meanness, felt 
outraged by his associate’s suspicions. 

“ Come, come, Mr. Timms,” the last exclaimed, “ 1 beg we may 
have no more of this. Mr. Williams has come with a proposition 
worthy of our consideration; let us meet it in the spirit in which it 
is offered.” 

‘‘ Yes,” repeated Williams, with a look that might well have ex- 
plained his sobriquet of “ saucy;” “ yes, in the spirit in which it is 
offered. Wbat do you say to that, Timms?” 

‘‘ That 1 shall manage the defense precisely as if no such propo- 
sition had been made, or any negotiation accepted. Y T ou can do the 
same tor the prosecution.” 

“Agreed!” Williams rejoined, making a sweeping gesture with 
his hand, and immediately quitting the room. 

Dunscomb was silent for a minute. A thread of smoke arose 
from the end of his cigai ; but the volume no longer poured from 


THE WAYS OE THE HOUR. 181 

between his lips. He was ruminating too intensely even to smoke. 
Rising suddenly, he took his hat, and motioned toward the door. 

“Timms, we must goto the jail,” he said; “Mary Monson 
must be spoken to at once. ’ ’ 

“ It Williams had made his proposition ten days ago, there might 
be some use in listening to it,” returned the junior, following the 
senior counsel trom tbe room, carrying all the papers in the cause 
under an arm; “ but, now that all the mischief is done, it would be 
throwing away five thousand- dollars to listen to his proposition.” 

“We will see — we will see,” answered the other, hurrying down- 
stairs — “ what means the rumpus in that room, Timms? " Mrs. Hor- 
ton has not treated me well, to place a troublesome neighbor so 
near me. 1 shall stop and tell her as mu,cli, as we go through the 
hall.” 

“ You had better not, squire. We want all- our friends just now ; 
and a sharp word might cause us to lose this woman, who has a 
devil of a tongue. She tells me that a crazy man was brought here 
privately ; and, being well paid for it, she has consented to give 
him what she calls her “drunkard’s parlor,’ until the court has 
settled his affair. His room, like your own, is so much out of the 
way, that the poor fellow gives very little trouble to the great body 
of the boarders.” 

“ Ay, very little trouble to you , and the rest of you, in the main 
building; but a great deal to me. 1 shall speak to Mrs. Horton on 
the subject, as we pass out.” 

“ Better not, squire. The woman is our friend now, 1 know; 
but a warm word may turn her to the right-about.” 

It is probable Dunscomb was influenced by his companion; for 
he left the house without putting his threat into execution. In a 
few minutes he and Timms were at the jail. As counsel could not 
well be refused admission to their client on the eve of trial, the two 
lawyers were admitted to the gallery within the outer door»that has 
been so often mentioned. Of course, Mary Monson was notified of 
the visit; and she received them with Anna Updyke, the good, gen- 
tle, considerate Anna, who was ever disposed to help the weak and 
to console the unhappy, at her side. Dunscomb had no notion that 
the intimacy had grown to this head; but when he came to reflect 
that one of the parties was to be tried for her life next dav, he was 
disposed to overlook the manifest indiscretion of his old favorite in 
being in such a place. Mrs. McBrain’s presence released him from 
all responsibility; and he returned the warm pressure of Anna’s 
hand in kindness, if not with positive approbation. As for the girl 
herself, the very sight of “ Uncle Tom,” as she had so long -been 
accustomed to call the counselor, cheered her heart, and raised new' 
hopes in behalf of her friend. 

“ In a few clear, pointed words, Dunscomb let the motive of his 
visit be known. There was little time to throw away, and he went 
directly at his object, stating everything succinctly, but in the most 
intelligible manner. Nothing could have been more calm than the 
manner in which Mary Monson listened to his statement; her de- 
portment being as steady as that of one sitting in judgment herself, 
rather than that of a person whose own fate was involved in the 
issue. 


% 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


182 

“ It is a large sum to raise in so short a time,” continued the kind- 
hearted Duns comb; “ but I deem the proposition so important to 
your interest, that, rather than lose this advantage, I would not 
hesitate about advancing the money myself, should you be unpre- 
pared tor so heavy a demand.” 

4< As respects the money, Mr. Dunscomb,” returned the lair pris- 
oner, in the most easy and natural manner. “ that need give us no 
concern. By sending a confidential messenger to town — Mr. John 
Wilmeter, for instance ’’—here Anna pressed less closely to her 
friend’s side — “it would be .very easy to have five hundred eagles 
or a thousand half-eagles here, by breakfast-time to-morrow. It is 
not on account of any such difficulty that 1 hesitate a moment. What 
1 dislike is the injustice of the thing. I have never touched a cent; 
of poor Mrs. Goodwin’s hoard; and it would be false to admit that 
1 am returning that which I never received” 

“ We must not be particular, ma’am, on immaterial points, when 
there is so much at stake.” 

“ It may be immaterial whether 1 pay money under one form or 
another, Mr. Dunscomb; but it can not be immaterial to my future 
standing, whether 1 am acquitted in the teeth of this Mr. Williams’s 
opposition, or under lavor of his purchase.” 

‘‘Acquitted! Our case is not absolutely clear, Miss Monson — it 
is my duty to tell you as much!” 

“ I understand such to be the opinion of both Mr. Timms and 
yourself, sir; I like the candor of your conduct, but am not con- 
verted to your way of thinking. I shall be acquitted, gentlemen — 
yes, honorably, triumphantly acquitted: and 1 can not consent to 
lessen the impression of such a termination to my affair, by putting 
myself in the way of being even suspected of a collusion with a 
man like this saucy Williams. It is far better to meet him openly, 
and to defy him to do his worst. Perhaps some such trial, followed 
by complete success, will be necessary to my future happiness.” 

Anna now pressed nearer to the side of her friend; passing an 
arm, unconsciously to herself, around her waist. As for Dunscomb, 
he gazed at the handsome prisoner in a sort of stupefied wonder. 
The place, the hour, the business of the succeeding day, and all the 
accessories of the scene, had an effect to increase the confusion of 
his mind, and, for the moment, to call in question the fidelity of his 
senses. As be gazed at the prison-like aspect of the gallery, his 
eye fell on the countenance of Marie Moulin, and rested there in 
surprise for half a minute. The Swiss maid was looking earnestly 
at her mistress, with an expression of concern and of care so intense, 
that it caused the counselor to search for their cause. For the first 
time it flashed on his mind that Mary Monson might be a lunatic, 
and that the defense so often set up in capital cases as to weary the 
common mind, might be rendered justly available in this particular 
instance. The whole conduct of this seiving-woman had been so 
singular; the deportment of Mary Monson herself was so much out 
of the ordinary rules ; and the adhesion of Anna Updyke, a girl of 
singular prudence of conduct, notwithstanding her disposition to 
enthusiasm, so marked, that the inference was far from unnatural. 
Nevertheless, Mary Monson had never looked more calm, more 
intellectual; never manifested more of a mien of high intelligence. 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 183 

than at that very instant. The singular illumination of the counte- 
nance to which we have had occasion already to allude, was con- 
spicuous, but it was benignant, and quiet; and the flush of the cheeks 
added luster to her eyes. Then the sentiments expressed were just 
and noble, tree from the cunning and mendacity of a maniac; and 
such as any man might be proud to have the wife of his bosom en- 
tertain. All these considerations quickly chased the rising distrust 
from Dunscomb’s mind, and his thoughts reverted to the business 
that had brought him there. 

“You are the best judge, ma’am, of what will most contribute to 
your happiness,” rejoined the counselor, after a brief pause. “In 
the ignorance in which we are kept of the past, 1 might well add, 
the only judge; though it is possible that your female companions 
know more, in this respect, than your legal advisers. It is proper 1 
should say, once more, and probably for the last time, that your 
case will be greatly prejudiced unless you enable us to dwell on 
your past life freely and truly.” 

“1 am accused of murdering an unoffending female and her hus- 
band; of setting fire to the dwelling, and of robbing them of their 
gold. These are accusations that can properly be answered only by 
■a complete acquittal, after a solemn investigation. No half-way 
measures will do. 1 must be found not guilty, or a blot rests on 
my character for life. My position is singular— 1 had almost said 
cruel — in some respects owing to my own willfulness — ” 

Here x\nna Updyke pressed closer to her friend’s side, as if she 
would defeud her against these self-accustions; while Marie Moulin 
dropped her needle, and listened with the liveliest curiosity. 

“ In many respects, perhaps,” continued Mary, after a short 
pause, “and I must take the consequences. Willfulness has ever 
been my greatest enemy. It has been fed by perfect independence 
.and too much money. I doubt if it be good for woman to be thus 
tried. We were created for dependence, Mr. Dunscomb; depend- 
ence on our fathers, on our brothers, and perhaps on our husbands ” 
— here there was another pause; and the cheeks of the fair speaker 
flushed, while her eyes became brilliant to light. 

“ Perhaps /” repeated the counselor, with solemn emphasis. 

“ I know that men think differently from us on this subject — ” 

“ From us— do you desire me to believe that most women wish to 
be independent of their husbands! Ask the young woman at your 
side, if that be her feeling of the duties of her sex.” 

Anna dropped her head on her bosom, and blushed scarlet. In 
all her day-dreams of happiness with John Wilmeter, the very re- 
verse of the feeling now alluded to, had been uppermost in her mind; 
and to her nothing had ever seemed half as sweet as the picture of 
leaning on him tor support, guidance, authority, and advice. The 
thought of independence would have been painful to her; lor a 
principle of nature, the instinct of’ her sex, taught her that the part 
of woman was “ to love, honor, and obey.” As for Mary Monson, 
she quailed a little before the severe eye of Dunscomb; but education, 
the accidents of life, and possibly a secret principle of her peculiar 
temperament, united to stimulate her to maintain her original 
ground. 

“ I know not what may be the particular notions of Miss Up- 


184 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


dyke,” returned this singular being, “ but 1 can feel my own long- 
ings. They are all for independence. Men have not dealt fairly by 
women. Possessing the power, they have made all the laws, fash- 
ioned all the opinions of the world, in their own favor. Let a 
woman err, and she can never rise from her fall; while men live 
with impunity in the midst of their guilt. If a woman think differ- 
ently from those around her, she is expected to conceal her opinions, 
in order to receive those of her masters.' Even in the worship of 
God, the highest and most precious of all our duties, she is expected 
to play a secondary part, and act as if the Christian faith favored 
the sentiment of another, which teaches that women have no souls.” 

“ All this is as old as the repinings of' a very treacherous nature,, 
young lady,” answered Dunscomb, coolly; “ and I have often heard 
it before. It is not surprising, however, that a young, handsome, 
highly-educated, and I presume rich, person of your sex, should be 
seduced by notions seemingly so attractive, and long for what she 
will be apt to term the emancipation of her sex. This is an age of 
emancipation; prudent gray-headed men become deluded, and ex- 
hibit their folly by succumbing to a wild and exceedingly silly 
philanthropical hurrah! Even religion is emancipated! There are 
churches, it is true; but they exist, as appendages of society, instead 
of being divine institutions, established for the secret purposes of 
unerring wisdom; and we hear men openly commending this or that 
ecclesiastical organization, because it has more or less of the savor 
of republicanism. But one new dogma remains to be advanced — 
that the government of the universe is democratical— in which the 
‘ music of the spheres ’ is a popular song; and Uie disappearance of 
a world a matter to be referred to the people in their primary capac- 
ity. Among other absurdities of the hour is a new law, giving to 
married women the control of their property, and drawing a line of 
covetousness across the bolster of every marriage bed in the State!” 

Surely, Mr. Dunscomb, aman of your integrity, character, man- 
liness and principles, would defend the weaker sex in the mainten- 
ance of its rights against prodigality, tyranny, and neglect?” 

“ These are so many words, my dear ma’am, and are totally with- 
out meaning, when thoroughly sirted. God created woman 'to be a 
help-meet to man— to comfort, solace, and aid him in his pursuit 
after worldly happiness; but always in a dependent relation. The 
marriage condition, viewed in its every- day aspect, has sufficient 
causes of disagreement,. without drawing in this of property. One 
of the dearest and nearest of its ties, indeed, that of a perfect identi- 
fication of interests, is at once cut off by this toolisli, not to say 
wicked, attempt to light the torch of contention in every household. 
It were better to teach our women not to throw themselves away on 
men who can not be trusted; to inculcate the necessity of not mar- 
rying in haste t« repent at leisure, than to tinker the old, venerable 
and long-tried usages of our fathers, by crotchets that come far more 
from the feverish audacity of ignorance, than from philosophy or 
wisdom. Why, unless the courts interpose their prudence to rectify 
the blunders of the legislature, as they have already done a hundred 
times, the laborer’s wife may have her action against her husband 
for the earthen bowl he has broken; and the man may be sued by 
the wife for rent! The happiness of every home is hourly put ia 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 185 

jeopardy, in order that, now and then, a wite may be saved from 
the courses of a speculator or a spendthrift.” 

“ Might not this have been done before, Uncle Tom, by means of 
settlements?” asked Anna, with interest. 

“ Certainly; and that it is which renders all this silly quackery 
so much the worse. In those cases in which the magnitude of the 
stake might seem to demand extraordinary care, the means already 
existed for providing all useful safeguards; aud any new legislation 
was quite unnecessary. This very law will produce twenty-fold 
more unhappiness in families, than it will prevent of misery, by 
setting up distinct, and often conflicting interests, among those who 
ought to live as ‘ bone of their bone, and flesh bf their flesh.’ ” 

“ You do not give to woman her proper place in society, Mr. 
Dnnscomb,” returned Marv Monson, haughtily; “ your comments 
are those of a bachelor. 1 have heard of a certain Miss Millington, 
who once had an interest with you, and who, it living, would have 
taught you juster sentiments on this subject.” 

Dunscomb turned as white as a sheet; his hand and lip quivered; 
and all desire to continue the discourse suddenly left him. The 
gentle Anna, ever attentive to his wishes and ailings, stole to his 
side, silently offering a glass of water. She had seen this agitation 
before, and knew there was a leaf in “ Uncle Tom’s ” history that 
he did not wish every vulgar eye to read. 

As for Mary Monson, she went into her cell, like one who declined 
any further communication with her counsel. Timms was struck 
with her lofty and decided manner; but stood too much in awe of 
her, to interpose a remonstrance. After a tew minutes taken by 
Duuscorab to regain his self-command, and a brief consultation to- 
gether, the two lawyers quilted the prison. AH this time, the ac- 
cused remained in her cell, in resentful silence, closely and anxious- 
ly watched by the searching eye of her senior attendant. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Methinks, if, as I guess, the fault’s but small, 

It might be pardoned. 

The Orphan. 

Perhaps no surer test of high principles, as it is certain no more 
accurate test of high ..breeding can be found, than a distaste for in- 
jurious gossip. In woman, subject as she is unquestionably by her 
education, habits', and active curiosity,, to the influence of this vice, 
its existence is deplorable, leading to a thousand wrongs, among the 
chief of which is a false appreciation of ourselves; but, when men 
submit to so vile a propensity, they become contemptible, as well 
as wicked. As a result of long observation, we should say that 
those who are most obnoxious to the just condemnation of the 
world, are the most addicted to finding faults in others; and it is 
only the comparatively good, who are so because they are humble, 
that abstain from meddling and dealing in scandal. 

When one reflects on the great amount of injustice that is thus 
inflicted, without even the most remote hope of reparation, how far 
a loose, ill-considered and ignorant remark will float on the tongues 


THE WAYS, OF THE HOUR. 


186 

of the idle, liow much unmerited misery is oftentimes entailed by 
such un weighed assertions and opinions, and how small is the return 
of benefit in any form whaiever, it would almost appear a necessary 
moral consequence f hat the world, by general consent, would deter- 
mine to eradicate so pernicious an evil, in the common interest of 
mankind. That it does not, is probably owing to the power that is 
still left in the hands of the Father of Sin, by the Infinite Wisdom 
that has seen fit to place us in this condition of trial. The parent of 
all lies, gossip, is one of the most familiar of the means he employs 
to put his falsehoods in circulation. 

This vice is heartless and dangerous when confined to ils natural 
limits, the circles of society: but, when it invades the outer walks 
of life, and, most of all, when it gets mixed up with the administra- 
tion of justice, it becomes a tyrant as ruthless and injurious in its 
way, as he who fiddled while Rome was in flames. We have no 
desire to exaggerate the evils of the state of society in which we live; 
but an honest regard to truth will, we think, induce every observ- 
ant man to lament the manner in which this power, under the guise 
of popular opinion, penetrates into all the avenues of the courts^ 
corrupting, perverting, and often destroying, the healthful action 
of their systems. 

Biberry furnished a clear example of the truth of these remarks 
on the morning of the day on which Mary Monson was to be tried. 

The jail-window had its crowd, of course; and though the dispo- 
sition of curtains, and other similar means of concealment, com- 
pletely battled vulgar curiosity, they could not cloak the resentful 
feelings to which this reserve gave birth. Most of those who were 
drawn thither belonged to a class who fancied it was not -affliction 
enough to be accused of two of the highest crimes known to Ihe 
laws; but that to this grievous misfortune should be added a sub- 
mission to the stare of the multitude. It was the people’s laws the 
accused was supposed to have disregarded; and it was their privilege 
to anticipate punishment, by insult; 

“ Why don’t she show herself, and let the public look on her?” 
demanded one curious old man, whose head had whitened under a 
steadily increasing misconception of what the rights of this public 
w r ere. “ I’ve seen murderers afore now, and ain’t a bit afeard on 
’em, if th<*y be well ironed and look’d a’ter.” 

This sally produced a heartless laugh; for, sooth to say, where one 
feels, under such circumstances, as reason, and justice, and revela- 
tion would tell them to feel, ten feel as the demons prompt. 

“ You can not expect that a lady of fashion, who plays on the harp 
and talks French, will show her pretty face to be gazed at by com- 
mon folk,” rejoined a shabby genteel sort of personage, out of whose 
waistcoat-pocket obtruded the leaves of a small note- book, and the 
end of a gold pen. This man was a reporter, rendered malignant 
by meeting with opposition to his views of imagining that the uni- 
verse was created to furnish paragraphs for newspapers; He was a 
half-educated European, who pronounced all his words in a sort of 
boarding-school dialect, as if abbreviation offended a taste 4 ‘ sickened 
over by learning.” 

Another laugh succeeded this supercilious sneer ; and three or four 
lads, half -grown and clamorous, called aloud the name of “ Mary 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUJEt, 


187 

Monson,” demanding that she should show herself. A.t that mo- 
ment the accused was on her knees, with Anna Updyke at her side, 
praying for that support which, as the crisis arrived, she found to 
be more and more necessary. 

(^hanging from this scene to the' open street, we find a pettifogger, 
one secretly prompted by Williams, spreading a report that had its 
origin no one knew where, but which was gradually finding its 
way to the ears of halt the population of Dukes, exciting preju- 
dice and inflicting wrong. 

“ It’s the cmi’stest story 1 ever heard,” said Sam Tongue, as the 
pettifogger was usually styled, though his real name was Hubbs; 
“ and one so hard to believe, that, though I tell it, 1 call on no man 
to believe it. You see, gentlemen ’’—the little group around him 
was composed of suitors, wil nesses, jurors, grand- jurors, and others 
of a stamp that usually mark these several classes of men— “that 
the account now is, that this Mary Monson was sent abroad for her 
schoolin’ when only ten years old; and that she stayed in the old 
countries long enough to l’arn to play the harp, and other deviltries 
of the same natur.’ It’s a misfortiu’, as 1 say, for any young woman 
to be sent out of Ameriky for an edication. Edication, as every- 
body knows, is the great glory of our country; and a body would 
think that what can’t be l’arn’t here, isn’t worth knowin’.” 

This sentiment was well received, as would be any opinion that 
asserted American superiority, with that particular class of listeners. 
Eye turned to eye, nod answered nod, and a murmur expressive of 
approbation passed through the little crowd. 

“ But there was no great harm in that,” put in a person named 
Hicks, who was accustomed to connect consequences with their 
causes, and to trace causes down to their consequences. “ Anybody 
might have been edicated in France as well as Mary Monson. Ihat 
will hardly tell ag’in her on the trial.” 

“1 didn’t say it would,” answered Sam Tongue; “though it’s 
gin’rally conceded that France is no couutry for religion or true 
freedom. Dive me religion and freedom, say I; a body can get 
along with bad crops, or disappointments in gin’ral, so long as he 
has plenty of religion and plenty of freedom.” 

Another murmur, another movement in the group, and other nods 
denoted the spirit in which this was received too. 

“ All this don’t make ag’in Mary Monson; ’specially as you say 
she was sent abroad so young. It wasn’t her fault if tier par- 
ents—” 

“She had no parents — there’s the great mystery of her case. 
Never had, so far as can be discovered. A gal without parents, 
without fri’nds of any sort, is edicated in a foreign land, l’arns to 
speaK foreign tongues, plays on foreign music, and comes home 
a’ter she’s grown up, with her pockets as full as if she’d been to 
Californy and met a vein; and no one can tell where it all come 
from !” 

“ Well, that won’t tell ag’in her, ne’tlier,” rejoined Hicks, who 
had now defended the accused so much that he began to take an 
interest in her acquittal. “Evidence must be direct, and have a 
p’int, to tell ag’in man or woman. As for Californy, it’s made law- 
ful by treaty, if Congress will only let it alone.” 


188 


THE WAtS OE THE HOUR. 


“ 1 know that as well as the best lawyer in Dukes; but character 
can tell ag’in an accused, as is very likely to be shown in the Oyer 
and Terminer of this day. Character counts, let me tell you, when 
the facts get a little confused; and this is just what 1 was about to 
say. Mary Monson has money; where does it come from?” 

“ Those that think her guilty say that it comes from poor Mrs. 
Goodwin’s stockin’,” returned Hicks, with a laugh; ” but, for my 
pari, I’ve seen that stockin’, and am satisfied it didn’t hold five hum 
dred dollars, if it did four.” 

Here the reporter out with his notes, scribbling away for some 
time. That evening a paragraph, a little altered to give it point and 
interest, appeared in an evening paper, in which the conflicting 
statements ot Tongue and Hicks were so presented that neither of 
these worthies could have recognized his own child. That paper 
was in Biberry next morning, and had no inconsiderable influence, 
ultimately, on the fortunes of the accused. 

In the bar-room of Mrs. Horton, the discussion was also lively 
and wily on this same subject. As this was a place much frequent- 
ed by the jurors, the agents of Timms and W illiams were very nu- 
merous in and around "that house. The reader is not to suppose that 
these men admitted directly to themselves eveu, the true character 
of the rascalty business in which they were engaged; for Uieir em- 
ployers were much too shrewd not to cover, to a certain degree, the 
deformity of their own acts. One set had been told that they were 
favoring justice, bringing down aristocratic pride to the level of the 
rights of the mass, demonstrating that this was a free country, by 
one ot the very vilest procedures that ever polluted the fountains of 
justice at their very source. On the other hand, the agents of 
Timms had been persuaded that they were working in behalf ot a 
persecuted and injured woman, who was pressed upon by the well- 
known avarice of the nephew of the Goodwins, and who was in 
danger of becoming the victim of a chain of extraordinary occur- 
rences that had thrown her into the meshes of the law. It is true, 
this reasoning was backed by liberal gifts; which, however, were 
made to assume the aspect ot compensation fairly earned, for the 
biggest villain going derives a certain degree of satisfaction in per- 
suading himself that he is acting under the influence of motives to 
which he is, in truth, a stranger. The homage which vice pays to 
virtue is on a much more extended scale than is commonly supposed. 

Williams’s men had much the best of it with the mass. They 
addressed themselves to prejudices as wide as the dominion of man; 
and a certain personal zeal was mingled with their cupidity. Then 
they had, by far, the easiest task. He who merely aids the evil 
principles of our nature, provided he conceal the cloven foot, is 
much more sure of finding willing listeners than he who looks for 
support in the good. A very unusual sort ot story was circulated in 
this bar-room at the expense of the accused, and which carried with 
it more credit than common, in consequence of its being so much 
out of the beaten track of events as to seem to set invention at defi- 
ance. 

Mar} 7 Monson was said to be an heiress, well connected, and well 
educated — or, as these three very material circumstances weye stated 
by the Williams men—” well to do herself, of friends well to do. 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR 


189 


and of excellent schooling.” She had been married to a person of 
equal position in society, wealth and character, but many years her 
senior— too many, the story went, considering her own time of life; 
for a great difference, when one of the parties is youthful, isapt to 
tax the tastes too severely — and that connection had not proved 
happy. It had been formed abroad, and more on foreign than on 
American principles; the bridegroom being a Frenchman. It' was 
what is called a manage de raison , made through the agency of 
friends and executors, rather than through the sympathies and feel- 
ings that should alone bring man and woman together in this, the 
closest union known to human beings. After a year of married life 
abroad, the unmatched couple had come to America,' where the wife 
possessed a very ample fortune. This estate the recently enacted 
law-s gave solely and absolutely to herself; and it soon became a 
source of dissension between man and wife. The husband, quite 
naturally, considered himself entitled to advise and direct, and, in 
some measure, to control, while the affluent, youthful, and pretty 
wife was indisposed to yield any of the independence she so much 
prized, but which, in sooth, was asserted in the very teeth of one of 
the most salutary laws of nature. In consequence of this' very dif- 
ferent manner of viewing the marriage relation, a coolness ensued, 
which was shortly followed by the disappearance of the wife. This 
wile was Mary Monson, w r ho had secreted herself in the retired 
dwelling of the Goodwins, while the hired agents of her husband 
were running up and down the land in search of the fugitive in 
places of resort. To this account, so strange, and yet in many re- 
spects so natuial, it was added that a vein of occult madness existed 
in the lady’s family; and it was suggested that, as so much of Jier 
conduct as was out of the ordinary course might be traced to this 
malady, so was it also possible that the terrible incidents of the fire 
and the deaths were to be imputed to ihe same deep affliction. 

We are tar from saying that any rumor expressed in the terms we 
have used, was circulating in Mrs. Horton’s bar-room; but one that 
contained all their essentials was. It is one of the curious effects of 
the upward tendency of truth that almost every effort to conceal it 
altogether fails; and this at the very time when idle and heartless 
gossip is filling the world with lies. T he tongue does a thousand 
times more evil than the sword; destroys more happiness, inflicts 
more incurable wounds, leaves deeper and more indelible scars. 
Truth is rarely met with unalloyed by falsehood. 

“ This or that unmix’d, no mortal e’er shall find ” — 

was the judgment of Pope a century since; nor has all the boasted 
progress of these later times induced a change. It is remarkable 
that a country which seems honestly devoted to improvement of 
every sort, that has a feverish desire to take the lead in the warfare 
against all sorts and species of falsehood, gives not the slightest heed 
to the necessity of keeping the channels of intelligence pure, as well 
as open ! Such is the fact; and it is a melancholy but a just admission 
to acknowledge, that with all the means of publicity preserved by 
America,. there is no country in which it is more difficult to get 
unadulterated truth impressed on the common mind. The same 
wire that transmits a true account of the price pf cotton from Hali- 


190 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


fax to New Orleans, carries a spark that imparts one that is false. 
The two arrive together; and it is not until each has done its work 
that the real fact is ascertained. 

Notwithstanding these undoubted obstacles to the circulation of 
unalloyed truth, that upward tendency to which we have alluded 
occasionally brings out clear and strong rays of the divine quality, 
that illumine the moral darkness on which they shine, as the sun 
touches the verge of the thunder-cloud. It is in this way that an 
occasional report is heard, coming from no one knows where; orig- 
inating with no one knows whom; circulating in a sort ot under- 
current beneath the torrents of falsehood, that is singularly, if it be 
not absolutely correct. 

Of this character was the strange rumor that found its way into 
Biberry on the morning of Mary Monson’s trial, touching the his- 
tory of that mysterious young woman’s past life. Wilmeter heard 
it, first, with a pang of disappointment, - though Anna had nearly 
regained her power in his heart; and this pang was immediately 
succeeded by unbounded surprise. He told the tale to Millington; 
and together they endeavored to trace the report to something like 
its source. All efforts ot this nature were in vain. One had heard 
the story from another; but no one could say whence it came origi- 
nally. The young men gave the pursuit up as useless,, and pro- 
ceeded together toward the room of Timms, where they knew Duns- 
comb was to he found, iust at that time. 

“It is remarkable that a story of this nature should be in such 
general circulation,” said John," “ and no one be able to tell who 
brought it to Biberry. Parts of it seem extravagant. Do they not 
strike you so, sir?” 

There is nothing too extravagant for some women to do,” an- 
swered Millington, thoughtfully. “ Now, on such a person as Sarah, 
or even on Anna Updyke, some calculations might be made — cer- 
tain calculations, 1 might say; but there are women, Jack, on 
whom one can no more depend, than on the constancy of the winds. ” 

“ 1 admire your — ‘ even on Anna Updyke!’ ” 

“ Do you not agree with me?” reurned the unobservant Milling- 
ton. “1 have always considered Sarah’s friend as a particularly 
reliable and safe sort of person.” 

“Even on Anna Updyke!— and a particularly reliable and safe 
sort of person! You have thought this, Mike, because she is 
Sasali’s bosom friend?” 

“ That may have prejudiced me in her favor, 1 will allow; for 1 
like most things that Sarah likes.” 

John looked at his friend and future brother-in-law with an 
amused surprise; the idea of liking Anna Updyke on any account 
but her own, striking him as paiticularly absurd. But they were 
soon at Timms 's door, and the conversation dropped as a matter of 
course. 

No one who has ever traveled much in the interior of America, 
can easily mistake the character of one of the small edifices, with the 
gable to the street, ornamented with what are erroneously termed 
Venetian blinds, painted white, and with an air of tobacco-smoke 
and the shabby-genteel about it, notwithstanding its architectural 
pretensions. This is a lawyer's office, thus brought edgeways to 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


191 


the street, as if its owner felt the necessity of approaching the thor- 
oughfare of the world a little less directly than the rest of mankind. 
It often happens that these buildings, small as they usually are, con- 
tain two, or even three rooms; and that the occupants, it single men, 
sleep in them as well as transact their business. Such was the case 
with Timms, his “ office,” as the structure was termed, containing 
his bedroom, in addition to an inner and an outer apartment devoted 
to the purposes of the law. Dunscomb was in the sanctum, while a 
single clerk and three or four clients, countrymen of decent exterior 
and very expecting countenances, occupied the outer room. John 
and Mijlington went into the presence with little or no hesitation. 

Wilineter was not accustomed to much circumlocution; and he at 
once communicated the substance of the strange rumor that was in 
circulation, touching their interesting client. The uncle listened 
with intense attention, turning pale as the nephew proceeded. In- 
stead ot answering or making any comment, he sunk upon a chair, 
leaned his hands on a table and his head on his hands, for fully a 
minute. All were struck with these signs of agitation; but no one 
dared to interfere. At length, this awkward pause came to a close, 
and Dunscomb raised his head, the face still pale and agitated. His 
eye immediately sought that of Millington. 

“You had heard this story, Michael ?” demanded the counselor. 

“ I had, sir. John and I went together to try to trace it to some 
authority.” 

“ With what success?” 

“ None whatever. It is in every one’s mouth, but no one can say 
whence it came. Most rumors have a clew, but this seems to have 
none.” 

“ Do you trace the connection which has struck— -which has op- 
pressed me?” 

“ I do, sir, and was so struck the moment 1 heard the rumor; for 
the facts are in singular conformity with what you communicated 
to me some months since.” 

“ They are, indeed, and create a slrong probability that there is 
more truth in this rumor than is commonly to be found in such re- 
ports. What has become of Timms?” 

“ On the ground, squire,” answered that worthy from the outer 
room— “ just dispatching my clerk this word he pronounced 
“ chirk instead of ” dark,” by way of showing he knew how t& 
S pell_“ -with a message to one of my men. He will find him and 
be with us in a minute.” 

In the meantime, Timms had a word to say to each client in suc- 
cession; getting rid. of them all by merely telling each man, in his 
turn, there w r as not the shadow of doubt that he would get. the 
better of his opponent in the trial that was so near at hand. It may 
be said here, as a proof how much a legal prophet may be mistaken, 
Timms was subsequently beaten in each ot these three suits, to the 
great disappointment of as many anxious husbandmen, each of 
whom fondly counted on success, from the oily promises he had re- 
ceived. 

In a very few minutes the agent expected by Timms appeared in 
the office. He wa9 plain-looking, rather rough and honest in ap~ 


192 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


pearance, with a most wily, villanous leer of the eye. His employer 
introduced him as Mr. Johnson. 

“ Well, Johnson, what news?” commenced Timms. “ These are 
friends to Mary Monson, and you can speak out, always avoiding 
partic’lar partic’lars.” 

Johnson leered, helped himself to a chew of tobacco with great 
deliberation, a trick he had when he needed a moment of thought 
before he made his revelations; bowed respectfully to the great 
York lawj^er; look a good look at each of the young men, as if to 
measure their means of doing good or harm; and then condescended 
to reply. 

“ Not very good,” was the answer. “ That foreign instrument, 
which they say is just such a. one as David used when he played be- 
fore Saul, has done a good deal of harm. It won’t do, Squire 
Timms, to fiddle off an indictment for murder! Mankind gets en- 
gaged in such causes; and if they desire music on the trial, it’s the 
music of law and evidence that they want.” 

“ Have you heard any reports concerning Mary Monson’s past 
life? — if so, can you tell where they come fiom?” 

Johnson knew perlectly well whence a portion of the rumors 
came; those which told in favor of the accused; but these he easily* 
comprehended were not the reports to which Timms alluded. 

‘‘ Biberry is lull of all sorts. of rumors,” returned Johnson, cau- 
tiously, “ as it commonly is in court-time. Parties like to make the 
most of their causes.” 

44 You know my meaning — we have no time to lose; answer at 
once. ; ’ 

44 1 suppose I do know what you mean, Squire Timms; and 1 
have heard the report. In my judgment, the person who set it 
afloat is no friend of Mary Monson's.” 

44 You think, then, it will do her damage?” 

44 To the extent of her neck. Eve, before she touched the apple, 
could not have been acquitted in the face of such a rumor. 1 look 
upon your client as a lost woman, Squire Timms.” 

44 Does that seem to be the common sentiment— that is, so far as 
you can judge?” 

4 4 Among the jurors it does.” 

44 The jurors!” exclaimed Dunscomb — 44 what can you possibly 
know of the opinions of the jurors, Mr. Johnson?” 

A cold smile passed over the man’s face, and he looked steadily 
at Timms, as if to catch a clew that might conduct him safely 
through the difficulties of his case. A frown that was plain enough 
to the agent, though admirably concealed from all others in the 
room, told him to be cautious. 

44 1 only know wliat I see and hear. Jurors are men, and other 
men can sometimes get an insight into their feelings, without run- 
ning counter to law. ~1 heard the rumor related myself, in the 
presence of seven of the panel. It’s true, nothing was said of the 
murder, or the arson; but such a history of the previous life of the 
accused was given as Lady Washington couldn’t have stood up 
ag’in, had she been livin’, and on trial for her life.” 

44 Was anything said of insanity? ’ asked Dunscomb. 

44 Ah, that plea will do no good, nowadays; it’s worn out. They’d 


THF WAYS OF THE HOUR. 193 

hang a murderer from Bedlam. Insanity has been overdone, and 
can’t be depended on any longer.” 

“ Was anything said on the subject?” repeated the counselor. 

“ Why, to own the truth, there was ; 4 but, as that told for Mary 
Monson, and not ag'in her, it was not pressed.” 

“ You think, then, that the story has been circulated by persons 
in favor of the prosecution?” 

“ 1 know it. One of the other side said to me, not ten minutes ago 
— * Johnson/ said he — ‘ we are old friends ’—he always speaks to 
me in that- familiar way — ‘ Johnson,’ said he, ‘ you’d a done better 
to have gi’n up. What’s five thousaud dollars to the likes of her? 
and them you know is the figures.’ ” 

“ This is a pretty exhibition of the manner of administering 
justice!” exclaimed the indignant Dunscomb. “Long as I have 
been at the bar, I had no conception that such practices prevailed. 
At all events, this illegality will give a fair occasion to demand a 
new trial.” 

“ Ay, the sharpest lawyer that ever crossed Harlem Bridge cab 
1’arn something in old Dukes,” said Johnson, nodding. “ Squire 
Timms will stand to that. As for new trials, I only wonder the 
lawyers don’t. get one each time they' are beaten; for the law would 
bear them out. ” 

“ I should like to know how, Master Johnson,” put in Timms. 
“ That would be a secret worth knowing.” 

“ A five-dollar note will buy it.” 

“ There’s one of ten— now, tell me your secret.” 

” Well, squire, you be a gentleman, whatever folks may say and 
think of you. I’d rather do business with you, by one half, than 
do business with Williams; notwithstanding he has such a name, 
up and down the country. Stick to it, and you’ll get the nomination 
to the Sinat’; and the nomination secured, you’re sure of the seat. 
Nomination is the government of Ameriky; and that’s secured by 
a wonderful few!” 

“ 1 believe you are more than half right, Johnson.” Here Duns- 
comb, his nephew, and Millington left tEe office, quite unnoticed by 
the two worthies, who had entered on a subject as engrossing as 
that of Timms’s elevation to the Senate. And, by* the way, as this 
book is very likely to be introduced to the world, it may be well 
enough to explain that we have two sorts of “ Senates” in this 
country; wheels within wheels. There is the Semite of each State, 
without an exception now, we believe; and there is the Senate of 
the United States; the last being, in every sense, much the most 
dignified and important body. It being unfortunately true, that 
“nominations” are the real people of America, unless in cases 
which arouse the nation, the State Senates very often contain mem- 
bers altogether unsuited to their trusts; men who have obtained 
their seats by party legerdemain; and who hatl much better, on 
their own account, as well as on that of the public, be at home at- 
tending to their own private affairs. This much may be freely said 
by any citizen, of a State Senate, a collection of political partisans 
that commands no particular respect; but it is very different with 
that of the United States; and we shall confine ourselves to saying, 
in reference to that body, which it is the fashion of the times to 
7 


194 THE WAYS OF THE HOUK. 

reverence as the most illustrious political body on earth, that it is 
not quite as obnoxious to this judgment as. the best of its sisterhood 
ot the seveial States; though very lar from being immaculate, or 
what, with a little more honesty, in political leaders, it might be. 

“ 1 believe you are half right, Johnson,” answered Timms, 
“Nomination is the government in this country; liberty, people, 
and all! Let a man get a nomination on the right side, and he’s as 
good as elected. But, now for this mode ot getting new trials, 
Johnson?” 

“ Why, squire, I ’in amazed a man of your experience should ask 
the question ! The law is sharp enough in keeping jurors, and con- 
stables, and door-keepers in their places; but the jurors, and con- 
stables, and door keepers, don’t like to be kept in their places; and 
there isn’t one cause in ten, it they be of any length, in which the 
jurors don’t stray, or the constables don’t get into the jury-rooms. 
You can’t pound free- born Americans like cattle!” 

“ 1 understand you, Johnson, and will take tbe hint. I knew 
there was a screw loose in. this part of our jurisprudence, but did 
not think it as important as 1 now see it is. The fact is, Johnson, 
we have'been telling tbe people so long that they are perfect, and 
every man that he, in his own person, is one of these people, that 
our citizens don’t like to submit to restraints that are disagreeable. 
Still, we are a law-abiding people, as every one says.” 

“ That may be so, squire; but we are not juiy-room-abiding, nor 
be the constables outside-of-the-door-abiding, take my word tor it. 
As you say, sir, everj man is beginning to think he is a part of the 
people, and a great part, too; and he soon gets the notion that he 
Can do as he has a mind to do.” 

“ Where is Mr. Duuscomb?” 

“ He stepped out with the young gentlemen, a few moments since. 
1 dare say. Squire Timms, he’s gone to engage men to talk down 
this rumor about Mary Monson. That job should have been mine, 
by rights!” 

“Not he, Johnson — not he. Your grand lawyers don’t meddle 
with such matters; or, when they do, they pretend not to. No, he 
has gone to the jail, and 1 must follow him.” 

At the jail was Dunscomb, sure enough. Mary Monson, Anna 
and Sarah, with Marie Moulin, all dressed for the court; the former 
with beautiful simplicity, but still more beautiful care; the three 
last plainly, but in attire well suited to their respective stations in 
lifp. There was a common air ot concern and anxiety; though Mary 
Monson still maintained her self-command. Indeed, the quiet of 
her manner was truly wonderful, for the circumstances.” 

“ Providence has placed me in a most trying situation,” she said; 
“ but I see my course. Were I to shrink from this trial, evade it in 
any manner, a blot would rest on my name as long as i am re- 
membered. It is indispensable that 1 should be acquitted. This, by 
(Jod’s blessing on the innocent, must come to pass, and I may go 
forth and face my friends with a quiet mind.” 

“ These friends ought to be known,” answered Dunscomb, “ and 
should be here to countenance you with their presence,” 

“ They! He! Never— while I live, never !” 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 195 

“ You see this young man, Mary Monson— I believe he is known 
to you, by name?’\ " ' 

Mary Monson turned her face toward Millington, smiled coldly, 
and seemed undisturbed. 

“ VYhat is he to me? Here is the woman of his heart — let him 
turn to her , with all his care.” 

“ lou understand me, Mary Monson— it is important that 1 
should be assured of that.” 

“ Perhaps I do, Mr. Dunscomb, and perhaps I do not. You are 
enigmatical this morning; 1 crfn not be certain.” 

“ In one short half-hour the bell of yonder court-house will ring, 
■when you are to be tried for your life.” 

The cheek of the accused blanched a little; but its color soon re- 
turned, while her eye assumed a look even prouder than common. 

“ Let it come was her quiet answer — ” the innocent need not 
tremble. These two pure beings have promised ta accompany me 
to the place of trial, and to give me their countenance. Wby, then, 
should 1 hesitate?” 

“ I shall go, too ” — said Millington steadily, like one whose mind 
"was made up. 

“ You! Well, for the sake of this dear one, you may go, too.” 

For no other reason, Mary?” 

“ For no other reason, sir. 1 am aware of the interest you and 
Mr. Wil meter have taken in my case; and 1 thank you both from 
the bottom of my heart. Ah! kindness was never lost on me — ” 

A flood of tears, for the first time since her imprisonment, so far 
as any one knew, burst from this extraordinary being; and. for a 
few minutes, she became woman in the fullest meaning of the term. 

During this interval Dunscomb retired, perceiving that it was 
useless to urge anything on his client while weeping almost con- 
vulsively; and aware that he had several things to do before the 
court met. Besides, he left the place quite satisfied on an all- 
important point; and he and Millington walked by themselves to- 
ward the court-house, their heads close together, and their voices re- 
duced nearly to whispers. 


CHAPTER XX. 

^ “I blush, and am confounded to appear 

Before thy presence, Cato.” 

“ What’s thy crime?” 

“ I am a Numidian.” 

Cato. 

Within the half-hour mentioned by Dunscomb the court-house 
bell rang, and there was a rush toward that building, in order to 
secure seats for the approaching trial. All that has been related in 
the preceding chapter occurred between the hours of six and nine 
that morning, it being one of the “ ways of the hour ” in the march 
of improvement, to drive the administration of justice with as near 
an approach to railroad speed as is practicable. Many of the modern 
judges go to work as early as eight in the morning — perhaps most 
do in the country circuits— and continue to call causes until nine 


196 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


apd ten at night, illustrating the justice of the land by means of 
agents who are half asleep, and stupid from fatigue. 

We have said that everything like dignity, except as it is to be 
found in the high character of its duties, and the manner in which 
they are performed, has been banished from the courts of New 
York. Even on this solemn occasion, when a human being was to 
be put on trial for her life, and she a woman, there was no depart- 
ure" from the naked simplicity that has been set up on the pedestal 
of reason, in open opposition to the ancient accessories oy which 
the Law asserted its power. It remains to be seen whether human 
nature has not been as much overestimated under the new arrange- 
ment as it was underrated by the old. There is a medium, in truth, 
that it is ever safe to respect; and there is reason- to apprehend that 
ill throwing away the useless vestments of idle parade, those neces- 
sary to decency were cast aside with them. 

Quite a fourth of the audience assembled in Dukes County court- 
house, on this occasion, were females. The curiosity, which is said 
to be so natural to the sex, was, on this occasion, quickened by the 
peculiar circumstances of the case, a woman having been murdered, 
an<l a woman accused of having committed the offense. It was 
•said, however, that many were summoned as witnesses, it being 
generally understood that the state had subpoenaed the country far 
and near. 

At length a general and expecting silence succeeded the bustle 
of the crowds entering and obtaining seats, and the eyes of the 
spectators were very generally turned toward the door, in the wish to 
get. a glimpse of the principal personage in the approaching scene. 
We know not why it is that the spectacle of others’ woes has so great 
a charm for most persons. Nature has given us sympathy and 
compassion, and a desire to alleviate misery; yet most of us like to 
look upon it, as a mere spectacle, when we have neither the wish 
nor the power to be more than useless spectators. Thousands will 
assemble to see a man hanged, when all know that the law has a 
grasp too tight to be unloosed, and that the circle of the gallows is 
no place for feelings of commiseration. But, so it is; and many a 
female that day, who would have gladly alleviated any distress that 
it was in her power to lessen, sal there, a curious and interested ob- 
server of all that passed ; to note the workings of the countenance, 
the wril kings of . the inner soul, if any such there should be, or the 
gleams of hope that might, at intervals, lighten the gloom of de- 
spair. 

The court was occupied for half an hour with hearing motions, 
and in granting orders, nothing seeming to impede its utilitarian 
progress. Then the movement within the bar ceased, and an ex- 
pectation, that was even solemn, fell on the whole mass ,of human 
beings that were collected in that narrow space. 

“ This is the day for which the trial of Mary Monson was, by 
arrangement, set down,” observed the judge. “Mr. District At- 
torney, are you ready?” 

“ We are, sir— entirely so, I believe. If the court please, Mr. 
■Williams and Mr. Wright will be associated with me in this case. 
It is one oi importance, and 1 do not like the responsibility of trying 
it alone.” 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


197 


“ The court has so understood it— who is for the accused?” 

“ 1 am retained to defend Mary Monson,” answered Dunscomb, 
rising with dignity, and speaking with the self-possession of one 
long accustomed to the courts.' “Mr. Timms wiil assist me.” 

Are you ready^ gentlemen?” 

44 1 believe we are, your honor; .though the prisoner has not yet 
been arraigned.” 

” Mr. District Attorney, we will proceed.” 

As the sheriff now left tie room in person, rather an unusual 
thing in bringing a prisoner into court, expectation was at its height. 
In the mid3t of a breathing silence the door swung round— court- 
room doors are now made to swing like turnpikes, in order to pre- 
vent noise- and Mr. Gott entered, followed by Mary Monson, Anna, 
Sarah, Marie Moulin, and ihe Iwo young men. The kind-hearted 
wife of the sheriff was already in the room, and, by means of a 
constable, had managed to keep seats reserved for those who might 
attend the prisoner. To these seats the party now retired, with the 
exception of Mary Moulin, who attended her mistress within the 
bar. 

Every observer was struck with the unexpected air, manner, and 
attire of the prisoner. Dunscomh saw, at a glance, that her appear- 
ance had made a most favorable impression. This was something, 
and he hoped it might counteract much of the maneuvering of 
Davis and Williams. The judge, in particular,, a kind-hearted and 
very well-meaning man, was taken altogether by surprise. There 
is nothing in which there is more freemasonry than in the secret 
symptoms of social castes. Each individual is more or less of a 
judge of these matters, up to the level of his own associations, while 
all beyond is mystery, it happened that the judge, now about to 
try Mary Monson, belonged to an old, historical Jiew York family, 
a thing of rather rare occurrence in the great movements of the 
times, and he possessed an hereditary tact in discerning persons of 
his own habits of life. Almost at a glance he perceived that the 
prisoner had the air, manners, countenance and finesse of one ac- 
customed, from infancy, to good company. The reader may smile 
at this, but he must pardon us if we say the smile will betray 
ignorance, rather than denote the philosophy that he may fancy 
controls his opinions. Dunscomb was much gratified when the 
judge rather earnestly interposed Against the act of the sheriff, who 
was about to place the prisoner at the bar in the little barricaded 
place allotted to the use of ordinary criminals, directing him to— 

” Give the prisoner a chair within the bar, Mr. Sheriff. Gentle- 
men, be so good as to make room, that the accused may sit near her 
counsel. Mr. Attorney, let the prisoner be arraigned, as soon as she 
has rested from the fatigue and agitation of appearing here.” 

This ceremony, now little more than a blank form, was soon 
ended, and the plea of ” not guilty ” was entered. The next step 
was to impanel the jury, a task of infinite difficulty, an,d one that 
has got to be so much an outwork, in the proceedings in criminal 
cases, as almost to baffle the powers of the law. It is no unusual 
thing for the time of the court to be occupied a week or two, in this 
preliminary proceeding, until the evil has got to be so crying as to 
induce the executive to recommend that the legislature may devise 


198 the ways of the hour. 

some mode of relief. One of the most besetting vices of all Amer- 
ican legislation in those cases in which abuses are not the offspring 
of party, is a false philanthropy, in which the wicked and evil-doer 
has been protected at the expense of the upright and obedient. The 
abuge just mentioned is one of those in which the bottom has been 
leached somewhat sooner than common; but it is hazarding little 
to predict, that more than half which has been done within the last 
few years, under the guise of liberty and. philanthropy, will have to 
be undone, ere the citizen will be left to the quiet enjoyment of his 
rights* or can receive the just protection of the laws. 

One of the common-sense and real improvements of the day is to 
swear the jurors, in all the causes that are to be tried, by one proc- 
ess. This is a saving of time; and though the ceremony might be, 
and ought to be made, much more solemn and impressive than it 
is, as by causing all other business to cease, and to make every one 
present rise, and stand in reverential silence, while the name of the 
God of heaven and earth is invoked, still it is a great improve- 
ment on the ancient mode, and has reason to sustain it. It gives us 
pleasure to note such circumstances in the “ ways of the hour,” 
whenever a sense of right can induce one who loathes the flattery 
of the people quite as much as he loathes that of princes, and flattery 
of all sorts, to say aught in favor of what has been done, or is yet 
doing around him. 

The clerk called the name of Jonas Wattled, the first juror drawn. 
This man was a respectable mechanic, of no great force in the way 
of mind, but meaning well, and reputed honest. Timms gave the 
senior counsel a look, which the other understood to mean, “ he 
may do.” No objection being made on account of (lie State, Jonas 
Wattles took his seat in the jury-box, which was t hought great good 
luck tor a capitabcase. 

“ Ira Trueman,” cried the clerk. 

A meaning pause succeeded the announcement of this name. True- 
man was a person of considerable local influence, and would proba- 
bly carry gre^t weight in a body composed principally of men even 
less instiucted than he was himself. What was more, both Timms 
and Williams knew that their respective agents had been hard at 
work to gain his ear, though neither knew exactly with what degree 
of success. It was consequently equally hazardous to accept or to 
oppose, and the two legal gladiators stood at bay, each waiting for 
the other to betray his opinion of the man. The judge soon became 
~ wearied, and inquired it the juror was accepted. It was a some- 
, what amusing sight, now, to observe the manner in which Timms 
- proceeded with Williams, and Williams met Timms. 

“ 1 should like to hear the gentleman’s objections to this juror,” 

• - observed Timms, “ as 1 do not see that his challenge is peremptory.” 

“ I have not challenged the juror at all,” answered Williams, 
“ but have understood the challenge comes from the defense.” 

“This is extr’or’nary! The gentleman looks defiance at the 
juror, and now declares he does not challenge!” 

“ Looks! If looks made a challenge, the State might at once 
suffer these foul murders to go unpunished, for I am sure the gen- 
tleman’s countenance is a perfect tlumder-cloud—” 

“ 1 trust that counsel will recollect the gravity of this cause, and 


TH$ WAYS OF THE HOUR. 199 

suffer it to be conducted with the decorum that ought never to be 
wanting in a court of justice,” interposed the judge7 “ Unless there 
is a direct challenge, from one side or the other, the juror must take 
his seat, of course.” 

‘‘1 should like to ask the juror a question or two,” Timms re- 
plied, speaking very cautiously, and like one who was afrafd of 
hurting the feelings of the party under examination ; and in truth 
wary, lest on investigation he might discover that Trueman was 
likely to be the sort of person he wanted. “You have been at Bi- 
berry, juror, since the opening of the court?” 

Trueman nodded his head. 

‘‘Of course, you have been round among your friends and neigh- 
bors, that you have met with here?” 

Auother nod from Trueman, with a sort of affirmative grunt. 

‘‘You have probably heard more or less said concerning Mary 
Monson— 1 mean in a legal and proper way?” 

A third nod of assent. 

“ Can you speak anything, in particular, that has been said in 
your presence?” 

Trueman seemed to tax his memory, then he raised his head, and 
answered delibeiately and with great clearness: 

“1 was going from the tavern to the court-house, when 1 met 
David Johnson — ” 

“Never mind those particulars, Mr. Trueman,” interrupted 
Timms, who saw that the juror had been talking with one of his 
own most confidential agents — “ what the court wishes to know is, 
if any one has been reporting circumstances unfavorable to Mary 
Monson in your presence?” 

“ Or in her favor” put in Williams, with a sneer. 

“ Juror,” interposed the judge—” tell us if , any one has spoken 
to you on the merits of this case — for or against?” 

“ Merits ” — repeated Trueman, seeming to reflect again. “ No, 
your honor; 1 can’t say that there has.” 

Now, this was as bold a falsehood as was <ver uttered? but True- 
man reconciled the answer to his conscience by choosing to consider 
that the conversation he had heard had been on the demerits of the 
accused. 

“ I do not see, gentlemen, that you can challenge for cause,” ob- 
served his Honor—” unless you have further facts.” 

“ Perhaps we have, sir,” answered Williams. “ You were say- 
ing, Mr. Trueman, that you met David Johnson as you were going 
from the inn to the court- house. Did 1 understand you correctly?” 

“Just so, squire. I had been having a long talk with Peter 
Titus” — one of Williams’s most active and confidential agents — 
“ wffien Johnson came up. Johnson says, says he, ‘ A pleasant day, 
gentlemen —I’m glad to see you both out; for the faces of old 
friends is getting scarce — ’ ” 

“I see no objection to the juror’s being received,” Williams 
carelessly remarked; satisfied that Titus had not neglected his duty 
in that, long talk. 

“Yes, he is as good a juror as Dukes can furnish,” observed 
Timms, perfectly sure Johnson had turned to account the advan- 
tage of having the last word. Trueman was accordingly admitted 


200 


THE WAYS' OF THE HOtUiL 

to the box, as the second man of the twelve. The two managers of 
this cause were both right. Titus had crammed his old acquaintance 
Trueman with all that was circulating to' the prejudice ot the priso- 
ner; expressing surprise when he had said all he had to say, at 
hearing that his friend w T as on the panel. “ Well,” said Titus, as 
Johnson approached,. “ it questioned, you'll remember 1 said 1 
didn’t dream of jour being a juryman — but, just as like as not, 
you’ll not be drawn for the case at all.” On the other hand, John- 
son was quite eloquent and pathetic in giving his old acquaintance 
the history of Mary Monson’s case, whom he pronounced “ a most 
injured and parsecuted woman.” Trueman, a shrewd, managing 
fellow in general, fancied himself just as impartial and fit to try the 
cause, afier he had heard the stories of the two men, as he had ever 
been; but in this he was mistaken. It requires an unusually clear 
head, exceedingly high principles, and a great knowledge of mtn, 
to maintain perfect impartiality in these cases; and certainly True 
man was not the man to boast of all these rare qualities. In gen- 
eral, the last Word tells; but it sometimes happens that first impres 
sions become difficult to eradicate. Such was the fact in the pres, 
ent instance; Trueman taking his seat in the jury box with an ex- 
ceedingly strong bias against the accused. 

We are aware that these are not the colors in which it is the fash- 
ion to delineate the venerable and much vaunted institution of the 
jury; certainly a most efficient agent in curtailing the power of a 
prince; but just as certainly a most irresponsible, vague, and quite 
often an unprincipled means of administering the law, when men are 
not urged to the desire of doing right by political pressure from with- 
out, and are left to the perverse and free workings of a very evil 
nature. We represent things as we believe them to exist, knowing 
that scarce a case of magnitude occurs in which the ministers of 
corruption are not at work among the jurors or a verdict rendered 
in which the fingers of the Father ot Lies might not De traced, were 
the veil removed, and the facts exposed to the light of day. It is 
true, that in trials for life, the persecution of ihe prisoner rarely 
takes so direct a form as has been represented in the case of Mary 
Monson ; but the press and the tongue do an incalculable amount of 
evil, even in such cases; all the ancient safeguards of the law hav- 
ing been either directly removed by ill-considered legislation, or ren- 
dered dead-letters by the “ ways of the hour.” 

It was regarded as exceedingly good progress to get two jurors 
into the box, in a capital case, in the first half-hour. His honor had 
evidently resigned himself to a twenty-four hours’ job; and great 
was his satisfaction when he saw T Wattles and Trueman safely seated 
on their hard and uncomfortable seats; for it would almost seem 
that discomfort has been brought ipto the court-liouses as a sort of 
auxiliary to the old practice of starving a jury into a verdict. 

W hether it was owing to a suspicion, on the part of Timms, of 
the truth in regard to his being over- reached in the case of True- 
man, or to some other cause, he raised no objections to either of the 
six jurors next called. His moderation was imitated by Williams. 
Then followed two peremptory challenges; one in behalf of the pris- 
oner, and one in behalf ot the people, as it is termed. This was 
getting on so much better than everybody expected, that all were in 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


201 

good humor and, it is not exceeding the, truth if we add, in asligkt 
degree more disposed to view the prispner and her case with favor. 
On such trifles do human decisions very often depend. 

All this time, fully an hour, did Mary Monson sit in resigned 
submission to her fate, composed, attentive, and singularly ladylike. 
The spectators were greatly divided in their private speculations on 
her guilt or innocence. Some saw in her quiet manner, curious in- 
terest in the proceedings, and unchauging color, proofs not only of a 
hardened conscience, but of an experience in scenes similar to that 
in which she was now engaged ; overlooking all the probabilities, to 
indulge in conjectures so severe against one so young. 

“ Well, gentlemen,” cried the judge, “time is precious. Let us 
proceed. ’ ’ 

The ninth juror was drawn, and it proved to be a country trader 
of the name of Hatfield. This person was known to be a man of 
considerable influence among persons of his own class, and to have 
a reputation for judgment, if not for principles. “They might as 
well send the other eleven home, and let Hatfield pronounce llie 
verdict,” whispered one lawyer to another; “there is no material 
in that box to withstand his logic.” 

“ Then he will hold this young woman's life in his hand,” was 
the reply. 

“ It will be pretty much so. The glorious institution of the jury 
is admirably devised to bring about such results.” 

“ You forget the judge. He has the last word, you will remember.” 

“ Thank God it is so; else would our condition be terrible. Lynch 
law is preferable to laws administered by jurors who fancy them- 
selves so many legislators.” 

“ It can not be concealed that the spirit of the times has invaded 
Ihe jury-box; and the court has not one-half its ancient influence. 
I should not like to have this Hatfield against me.” 

It would seem that Williams was of the same way of thinking; for 
he muttered to himself, desired the juror not to enter the box, and 
seemed to be pondering on the course he ought to pursue. The 
truth was that he himself had recently sued Hatfield for debt, and 
the proceedings had been a little vindictive. One of the dangers 
that your really skillful lawyer has to guard against is the personal 
animosity that is engendered by his own professional practice. Many 
men have minds so constituted that their opinions are affected by 
prejudices thus created; and they do not scruple to transfer their 
hostility from the counsel to the cause he is employed to defend. It 
is consequently incumbent on the prudent lawyer to make his esti- 
mate of character with judgment, and be as sure, as the nature of 
the case will allow, that his client is not to suffer for his own acts. 
As hostility to the counsel is not a legal objection to a juror, Will- 
iams was under the necessity of presenting such as would com- 
mand the attention of the court. 

“ I wish the juror may be sworn true answers to make said 
Williams. 

Timms now pricked up his ears; for, if it were of importance for 
Williams to oppose the reception of this particular individual, it was 
probably of importance to Mary Monson to have him received. On 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


202 

this principle, therefore, he was ready to resist the attack on the 
juror, who was at once sworn. 

“ You reside in the adjoining town of Blackstone, 1 believe, Mr. 
Hatfield?” asked Williams. 

A simple assent was the reply. 

“ In practice there, in one of thedearned professions?” 

Hatfield was certain his interrogator knew better, tor Williams 
had been in his store fifty times; but he answered with the same 
innocent manner as that with which the question was put. 

“ I’m m trade.” 

“ In trade! Keep a store, 1 dare say, Mr. Hatfield?” 

“ I do— and one in which 1 have sold you hundreds myself.” 

A general smile succeeded this sally; and Timms looked round at 
the audience, with his nose pointing upward, as if he scented his 
game. 

“ 1 dare say — 1 pay as 1 go,” returned Williams; “ and my mem- 
ory is not loaded with such transactions — ” 

“ Mr. Williams,” interrupted the judge, a little impatiently, “ the 
time of the court is very precious. ” 

“ So is the dignity of the outraged laws .of the State, your honor. 
We shall soon be through, sir. Many people in the habit of fre- 
quenting your store, Mr. Hatfield?” 

“ As much so as is usual in the country.” 

“ Ten or fifteen at a time, on some occasions?” 

“ 1 dare say there may be.” 

“ Has the murder of Peter Goodwin ever been discussed by your 
customers in your presence?” 

“ I don’t know but it has— such a thing is very likely; but one 
hears so much, I can’t say.” 

“ Did you ever join in such a discussion yourself?’ 

“ 1 may, or 1 may not.” 

“ 1 ask you, now, distinctly, if you had no such discussion on the 
26th of May last, between the hours of eleven and twelve in the fore- 
noon?” 

The sharpness of the manner in which this question was put, the 
Yninuteness of the details, and the particularity of the interrogato- 
ries, quite confounded the juror, who answered accordingly. 

“ Such a thing might have taken place, and it might not . I do 
not remember.” 

“ Is Jonas White” (a regular country loafer) *‘ in the habit of 
being in your store?” 

“ He is — it is a considerable lounge for laboring men ” 

“ And Stephen Hook?” 

“ Yes; he is theie a good deal of his time.” 

“ Now, 1 beg you to remember — did not such a conversation take 
place, in which you bore a part, between the hours of eleven and 
twelve in the forenoon; White and Hook being present?” 

Hal field seemed perplexed. He very conscientiously desired to 
tell the truth, having nothing to gain by an opposite course; but he 
really had no recollection of any such discussion,' as well might be 
the case; no such conversation ever having taken place. Williams 
knew the habits ot the loafers in question, had selected the time at 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. ,203 

random, and adopted the particularity merely as a means of con- 
iounding the juror, of whom he was seriously afraid. 

“ Such a thing may have happened,” answered Hatfield, after a 
pause — “ 1 don’t remember.” 

“ It may have happened. Now, sir, allow me to ask you, if, in 
that conversation, you did not express an opinion that you did not, 
and could not believe that a lady educated and delicate, like the 
prisoner at the bar, did, or would, under any circumstances, commit 
the offense wilh which Mary Monson is charged?”' 

Hatfield grew more and more confounded; for Williams’s man- 
ner was more and more confident and cool. In this stale of feeling 
he suffered the reply to escape him — 

“ I 'may have said as much— it seems quite natural.” 

“I presume, after this,” observed Williams, carelessly, “your 
honor will order tlie juror not to enter the box?” 

“ Not so fast— not so fast, brother Williams,” put in Timms, who 
felt it was now his turn to say a word, and who was thumbing a 
small pocket-almanac very diligently the while. 

“ This discussion, 1 understand the learned gentleman, took place 
in the juror’s store?” 

“ It did, sir,” was the answer — “ a place where such discussions 
are very apt to occur. Hook and White loaf halt their time away 
in that store.” 

“ All quite likely — very likely to happen — Mr. Hatfield, do you 
open your store on the Sabbath?” 

“ Certainly not — I am very particular to do nothing of the sort.” 

A church-member, I suppose, sir?” 

“ An undeserving one, sir.” 

“ Never, on any account, in the practice of opening your store of 
a Sabbath, 1 understand you to say?” 

“ Never, except in cases of sickness. We must all respect the 
wants of the sick.” 

“ Are Hook and White in the habit of loafing about on your 
premises of a Sunday?” 

“ Never — 1 wouldn’t tolerate it. The store is a public place on a 
week-day, and they can come in if they please; butl wouldn’t toler- 
ate such visits on the Sabbath.” 

“ Yet, if the court please, the 26th of last May happened to fall on 
the Sabbath day! My brother Williams forgot to look into the 
almanac before he made up his brief.” 

Here Timms sat down, cocking his nose still higher, quite certain 
of having made a capital hit toward his views on the Senate, though 
he actually gained nothing for the cause. There was a general 
simper in the audience; and Williams felt that he had lost quite as 
much as his opponent had gained. 

“ Well, gentlemen, time is precious— let us go on,” interposed 
the judge. “ Is the juror to enter the box or not?” 

“I trust a trifling mistake as to the day of the month is not about 
to defeat the ends of justice,” answered Williams, raising himself 
higher on his stilts, as he found himself sinking lower in his facts. 
“ I prut it on Ihe 26th by a miscalculation, 1 can now see. It was 
probably on the 25th— Saturday is the loafer’s holiday; yes, it must 
have been on Saturday the 25th that the conversation took place.” 


204 THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 

“ Do you remember ibis fact, juror?” 

“ 1 remember, now so much has been said on the subject,” an- 
swered Hatfield, firmly, “ that I w r as not at home at all between the 
20th and the 27th ot May last. 1 could have held no such conversa- 
ion on the 25tli or 26th of May: nor do 1 know that 1 think Mary 
Monson either innocent or guilty.” 

As all this was true, and was uttered with the confidence of truth, 
it made an impression on the audience. Williams doubted; for so 
fine w^as his skill in managing men, that he often succeeded in gain- 
ing jurors by letting them understand he suspected them of being 
prejudiced against his case. With the weak and vain, this mode 
ot proceeding has frequently more success than a contrary course; 
the party suspected being doubly anxious to illustrate his impar- 
tiality in his verdict. This was what Williams, and indeed the bar, 
very generally calls “ standing so erect as to lean backward.” 

“Mr. Williams,” said the judge, “you must challenge per- 
emptorily, or the juror will be received.” 

“ No, your honor, the State will accept the juror; 1 now see that 
my information has been wrong.” 

“ We challenge for the defense,” said Timms, deciding on the in- 
stand, on the ground that if Williams was so ready to change his 
course of proceeding, there must be a good reason for it. “ Stand 
aside, juror.” 

“ Peter Bailey,” called the clerk. 

No objection being made, Peter Bailey took his seat. The two 
next jurors were also received unquestioned; and it only remained 
to draw T the twelfth man. This was so much better luck than com- 
monly happens in capital cases, that everybody seemed more and 
more pleased, as if all were anxious to come to the testimony. The 
judge evidently felicitated himself, rubbing his hands with very 
great satisfaction. The bar, generally, entered into his feelings; for 
it helped along its business. 

“ On the whole,” observed one of the lawyers who was in exten- 
sive practice, speaking to another at his side, “ 1 would as soon try 
one ot these murder-cases' as to go through with a good water- 
cause. ’ ’ 

“Oh! they are excruciating! Get into a good water-cause, with 
about thirty witnesses on a side, and you are in for a week. I was 
three days at one, only last circuit.” 

“ Are there many witnesses in this case?” 

“ About forty, I hear,” glancing toward the benches where most 
of the females sat. “ They tell me there will be a very formidable 
array as to character. Ladies from York by the dozen!” 

“ They will be wanted, if all they say is true.” 

“ If all you near is true, we have reached a new epoch in the his- 
tory of mankind. I have never seen the day when half of that I 
bear is more than half true. I set the rest down as 4 leather and 
prunella.’ ” 

“ Robert Robinson,'” cried the clerk. 

A respectable-looking man of fifty presented himself, and was 
about to enter the box without stopping to ascertain whether or not 
he would be welcome there. This person had much more the air 
of the world than either of the other jurors; and with those who are 


THE .WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


205 


not very particular, or very discriminating in such matters, might 
readily enough pass for a gentleman. He was neatly dressed, wore 
gloves, and had certain chains," an eyeglass, and other appliances 
of the sdrt that it is not usual to see at a country circuit. Neither 
Williams nor Timms seemed to know the juror; but each looked 
surprised, and undecided how he oughl to act. The peremptory 
challenges were not exhausted; and there was a common impulse 
in the two lawyers, first to accept one so respectable in mien, and 
attire, and general air; and then, by a sudden reyolution of feeling, 
to reject one of whom they knew nothing. 

“ 1 suppose the summons is all right/’ Williams carelessly re- 
marked. “ The juror resides in Dukes V” 

“ I do,” was the answer. 

“ Is a freeholder, and entitled to serve?” 

A somewhat supercilious smile came over the countenance, of the 
juror; and he looked round at the person who could presume to 
make such a remark, with something very like an air ot coritempt. 

‘‘ 1 am Docto r Robinson,” he then observed, laying emphasis on 
his learned appellation. 

Williams seemed at a loss; for, to say the truth, he had never 
heard of any such physician in the county. Timms was quite as 
much mystified; when a member of the bar leaned across a table, 
and whispered to Dunscomb that the juror was a celebrated quack, 
who made pills that would cure all diseases; and who, having made 
a fortune, had bought a place in the county, and was to all legal 
purposes entitled to serve. 

” The juror can stand aside,” said Dunscomb, rising in his slow 
dignified manner. “ It it please the court, we challenge perempto- 
rily.” 

Timms looked still more surprised; and when told the reason for 
the course taken by bis associate, he was even sorry. 

“ The man is a quack," said Dunscomb, “ and there is quackery 
enough in this system of a jury, without calling in assistance from 
the more open practitioners.” 

“ I’m afraid, squire, he is just the sort of man we want. 1 can 
work on such spirits, when 1 fail altogether with more every-day 
kind ot men. A little quackery does no harm to some causes.” 

“ Ira Kingsland,” called out the clerk. 

Ira Kingsland appeared, a staid, solid, respectable husbandman- 
one of those it is a mistaken usage of the country to term yeomen; 
and of a class that contains more useful information, practical good 
sense and judgment, than might be imagined, under all the circum- 
stances. 

As no objection was raised, this juror was received, and the panel 
was complete. After cautioning* the jurors about listening and 
talking, in the usual way, the judge adjourned the court for dinner. 


206 THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

I know it is dreadful ! I feel the 

Anguish of thy generous soul— but I was born 

To murder all who love me. 

'George Barnwell. 

Dunscomb was followed to his roofii by Millington, between 
whom and himself, John Wilmeter had occasion to remark, a sud- 
den intimacy had sprung up. The counselor had always liked his 
student, or he would never have consented to 'give him his nieee; 
but it was not usual for him to hold as long, or seemingly as con- 
fidential conversations with the young man, as now proved to be 
the case. When the interview was over, Millington mounted a 
horse and galloped off, in the direction of town, in that almost ex- 
ploded manner of moving. Time was, and that within the memory 
of man, when the gentlemen of New York were in their saddles 
hours 'each day; but all this is ^changing with the times. We live 
in an age of buggies, the gig, phaeton, and curricle having dis- 
appeared, and the utilitaiian vehicle just named having taken their 
places. Were it not tor the women, who still have occasion for 
closer carriages, the whole nation would soon be riding about in 
buggies! Berestovd is made, by one of his annotators, to complain 
that everything like individuality is becoming lost in England, and 
that the progress of great improvements must be checked, or inde- 
pendent thinkers will shortly be out of the question. If this be 
true of England, what might not be said on the same subject of 
America? Here, where there is so much community as to have 
completely ingulfed everything like individual thought and action, 
we take it the most imitative people on earth are to be found. This 
truth is manifested in a thousand things. Every town is getting its 
Broadway, thus defeating the very object of names; to day the 
country is dotted with Grecian temples, to-morrow with Gothic 
villages, all the purposes of domestic architecture being sadly for- 
gotten in each; and, as one of the Spensers is said to have intro- 
duced the article of dress which bears his name, by betting he could 
set the fashion of cutting oft the skirts of the coat, "so might one who 
is looked up to, in this country, almost set the fashion of cutting 
off the nose. 

Dunscomb, however, was a perfectly original thinker. This he 
manifested in his private life, as well as in his public profession. 
Ilis opinions were formed in his own way, and his acts were as 
much those of the individual as circumstances would at ail allow. 
His motives in dispatching Millington so suddenly to town were 
known to himself, aud will probably be shown to the reader, as the 
narrative proceeds. 

“Well, sir, how are we getting on?” asked John Wilmeter, 
throwing himself into a chair, in his uncle’s room, with a heated 
and excited air. “ 1 hope things are going to your mind?” 

“ We have got a jury, Jack, and ihat is all that can be said in 
the matter,” returned the uncle, looking over some papers as the 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 207 

conversation proceeded. “It is good progress, in a capital case, 
to get a jury impaneled in the first forenoon.” 

“ You'll have the verdict in, by this time to-morrow, sir, I’m 
afraid!” 

“ Why, afraid, boy? The .sooner the poor woman is acquitted, 
the better it will be for her.” 

“ Ay, if she be acquitted; but 1 fear everything is looking dark 
inthecf.se.” 

“ And this from you, who fancied the accused an angel of light, 
only a week since!” 

“ She is certainly a most fascinating creature, when she chooses 
to he,” said John, with emphasis; “ but she does not always choose 
to appear in that character.” 

“ She is most certainly a fascinating creature, when she chooses to 
he!” returned the uncle, with very much the same sort of emphasis. 

But Dunscomb’s manbei was very different from that of his 
nephew. John was excited, petulant, irritable, and in a state to 
feel and say disagreeable things; dissatisfied with himself, and 
consequently not very well pleased with others. A great change 
had come over his feelings, truly, within the last week, and the im- 
age of the gentle Anna IFpdyke was fast taking the place of that of 
Mary Monson. As the latter seldom saw the young man, and then 
only at the gate, the former had got to be the means of communica- 
tion between the youthful advocate and his client, throwing them 
constantly in each other’s way. On such occasions Anna was always 
so truthful, so gentle, so earnest, so natural, and so sweetly femi- 
nine, that John must have been made of stone, to remain insensi- 
ble of her excellent qualities. If women did but know how much 
their power, not to say charms, are increased by gentleness, by 
tenderness in lieu of coldness of manner, by keeping within the nat- 
ural circle of their sex’s feelings, instead of aping an independence 
and spirit more suited to men than to their own condition, we 
should see less of discord in domestic life, happier wives, better 
mothers, and more reasonable mistresses. No one knew -this better 
than Dunscomb, who had not been an indifferent spectator of his 
nephew’s course, and who fancied this a favorable moment to say a 
word to him, on a - subject that he felt to be important. 

“ This choosing to be is a very material item in the female charac- 
ter,” continued the counselor, after a moment of silent, and pro- 
found thought. “ Whatever. else you may do, my boy, in the way 
of matrimony, marry a gentle and feminine woman. Take my 
word for it, there is no true happiness with any other.” 

“ Women have their tastes and caprices, and like to indulge them, 
sir, as well as ourselves.” 

“All that may be true, but avoid what is termed a woman of inde- 
pendent spirit. They are usually so many devils incarnate. If 
they happen to unite moneyed independence with moral independ- 
ence, 1 am not quite certain that their tyranny is not worse than 
that of Neio. A tyrannical woman is worse than a tyrannical man, 
because she is apt to be capricious. At one moment she will blow 
hot, at the next cold; at one time she will give, at the next clutch 
back her gifts; to-day she is the devoted and obedient wife, to- 
morrow the domineering partner. "No, no, Jack, marry a woman ; 


208 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUJt. 


which means a kind, gentle, affectionate, 'thoughtful creature, whose 
heart is so full of you , there is no room in it for herself. Marry 
just such a girl as Anna IJpdyke, if you can get her.” 

“ 1 thank you, sir,” answered John, coloring. “ I dare say the 
advice is good, and I shall bear it in mind. What would you think 
of a woman like Mary Monson, for a wife?” 

Dunscomb turned a vacant look at his nephew, as if his thoughts 
were tar away, and his chin dropped on his bosom. This abstrac- 
tion lasted but a minute, however, when the young man got his an- 
swer. 

‘‘Mary Monson is a wife, and 1 fear a bad one/’ returned the 
counselor. ‘‘ If she be the woman I suppose her to be, her history, 
brief as it is, is a very lamentable oue. John, you are my sister’s 
son, and my heir. You are nearer to me than any other human 
being, in one sense, though 1 certainly love Sarah quite as well as 1 
do you, if not a little better. These ties Of feeling are stiange links 
in our nature! At one lime 1 loved your mother with a tenderness 
such as a father might feel for a child; in short, with a brother’3 
love— a brother’s love for a young, and pretty, and good girl, and I 
thought 1 could never love another as I loved Elizabeth. She re- 
turned my affection, and there was a period of many years when 
it was supposed that we were to pass down the vale of life in com- 
pany, as brother and sister— old bachelor and old maid. Your fa- 
ther deranged all this, and at thirty-four my sister left me. It was 
like pulling my heart-strings out of me, and so much the worse, 
boy, because they were already sore.” 

John started. Hs uncle spoke hoarsely, and a shudder, that was 
so violent as to be perceptible to his companion, passed through his 
frame. The cheeks of the counselor were usually colorless; now 
they appeared absolutely pallid. 

“This, then,” thought John Wilmeter, ‘‘is the insensible old 
bachelor, who was thought to live altogether for himself. How lit- 
tle does the world really know of what is passing within it! Well 
may it be said, ‘ There is a skeleton in every house.’ ” 

Dunscomb soon recovered his self-command. Reaching forth an 
arm, he took his nephew’s hand, and said affectionately — 

“I am not often thus, .Jack, as you must know. A vivid recol- 
lection of days that have long been past came freshly over me, and 
1 believe I have been a little unmanned. To you, my early history 
is a blank: but a very few words will-serve to tell you all you need 
ever know. I was about your time of life, Jack, when 1 loved, 
courted, and became engaged to Mary Millington — Michael’s great- 
aunt. is this new to you?” 

“ Not entirely, sir; Sarah has told me something of the same sort 
—you know the girls get hold of family anecdotes sooner than we 
men.” 

“ She then probably told you that I was cruelly, heartlessly jilted 
for a richer man. Mary married, and left one daughter; who also 
married early, her own cousin, Frank Millington, the cousin of 
Michael’s father. You may now see why 1 have ever felt so much 
interest in your future brother-in-law.” 

“He is a good fellow, and quite free from all jilting blood. I’ll 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


209 

answer for it. But, what has become of this Mrs. Frank Milling- 
ton? I remember no such person.” 

“ Like her mother, she died young, leaving an only daughter to 
inherit her name and very ample tortune. The reason you never 
knew Mr. Frank Millington is pVobably because he went to Paris 
early, where he educated his daughter, in a great degree — there, and 
in England— and when be died, Mildred Millington, the heiress of both 
parents, is said to have had quite twenty thousand a year. Certain 
officious friends made a match for her, 1 have heard, with a French- 
man of some family, but small means; and the recent revolution had 
driven them to this country, where, as 1 have been told, she took 
the reins of domestic government into her own hands, until some 
sort of a separation has been the consequence. ” 

“ Why, this account is surprisingly like the report we have had 
concerning Mary Monson, this morning!” cried Jack, springing to 
his feet with excitement. 

“1 believe her to be the same person. Many things unite to 
create this opinion. In the first, place, there is certainly a marked 
family resemblance to her grandmother and mother; then the edu- 
cation, manners, languages, money, Marie Moulin, and the initials 
of the assumed name, each and all have their solution in this belief. 
The ‘ Mademoiselle ’ and the ‘ Madame ’ of the Swiss maid are ex- 
plained; in short, if we can believe this Mary Monson to be Madame 
de Larocheforte, we can find an explanation of everything that is 
puzzling in her antecedents.” 

“ But why should a woman of twenty thousand a year be living 
in the cottage of Peter Goodwin?” 

“ Because she is a woman of twenty thousand a year. Monsieur 
de Larocheforte found her money was altogether at her own com- 
mand, by this new law, and, naturally enough, he desired to play 
something more than a puppet’s part in his own abode and family. 
The lady clings to her dollars, which she loves more than her hus- 
band ; a quarrel ensues, and she chooses to retire from his protec- 
tion, and conceals herself, for a time, under Peter Goodwin’s roof, 
to evdde pursuit. Capricious and wrong-headed women do a thou- 
sand strange things, and thoughtless gabblers often sustain them in 
what they do.’ 

“ This is rendering the marriage tie very slight!” 

“ It is treating it with contempt; setting at naught the laws of 
God and man — one’s duties, and the highest obligations of woman. 
Still, many of the sex fancy if they abstain from one great and dis- 
tinct offense, the whole catalogue of the remaining misdeeds is at 
their mercy.” 

“ Not to the extent of murder and arson, surely! Why should 
such a woman commit these crimes?” 

“ One never knows. We are fearfully constituted, John; morally 
and physically. The fairest form often conceals the blackest heart, 
and vice versa. But 1 am now satisfied that there is a vein of in- 
sanity in this branch of the Millingtons; and it is possible Madame 
de Larocheforte is more to be pitied than to be censured.” 

*‘ You surely do not think her guilty, Uncle Tom?” 

The counselor looked intently at his nephew, shaded his orow a 
moment, gazed upward, and answered — 


no 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


“ 1 do. There is such aoliain of proof against her as ■will scarce 
admit of explanation. 1 am afraid, Jack — lam afraid that she has 
done these deeds, terrible as they are! Such has been my opinion, 
now, for some time; though my mind has vacillated, as 1 make no 
doubt will prove to be the case with those of most uf the jurors. It 
is a sad alternative; but I see no safety for her except in the plea of 
insanity. 1 am in hopes that something may be made out in that 
respect. ” 

' . “We are quite without witnesses to the point; are we not, sir?” 

“ Certainly; but Michael Millington has gone to town to send by 
telegraph tor the nearest connections of Madame de Larocheforte, 
who are in the neighborhood of Philadelphia. The husband him- 
self is somewhere on the Hudson. He must be hunted up too. 
Michael will see to all this. I shall get the judge to adjourn early 
this evening; and we must spin out the trial for the next day or two, 
in order to collect our forces. The judge is young and indulgent. 
He has certain ridiculous notions about saving the time of the pub- 
lic; but does not feel secure enough in his seat to be very positive.” 

At this instant Timms burst into the room, in a high state 6f ex- 
citement, exclaiming, the moment he was sure that his words would 
not reach any hostile ears — 

“ Our case is desperate! All the Burtons are coming out dead 
against us; and neither ‘ the new philanthropy,’ nor * Friends,’ nor 
‘ anti-gallows,’ can save us. 1 never knew excitement get up so 
fast. It’s the internal aristocracy that kills us! Williams makes 
great use of it; and our people will not stand aristocracy. See what 
a magnanimous report to the legislature the learned attorney -general 
has just made on the subject of aristocracy. How admirably he 
touches up the kings and countesses!” 

“Pshaw!” exclaimed Dunscomb, with a contemptuous curl of 
the lip — “ not one in a thousand knows the meaning ot the word; 
and he among the rest. The report you mention is that of a re- 
fined gehtleman, to be sure, and is addressed to his equals. What 
exclusive political privilege does Mary Monson possess? or what 
does the patroon, unless it be the privilege of having more stolen 
from him, by political frauds, than any other man in the State? 
This cant about social aristocracy, even in a state of society in which 
the servant deserts his master with impunity, in the midst of a din- 
ner, is very miserable stuff! Aristocracy, forsooth! If there be 
aristocracy in America, the blackguard is the aristocrat. Away, 
then, with all this trash, and speak common sense in future.” 

“You amaze me, sir! Why I regard you as a sort of aristocrat, 
Mr. Dunscpmb.” 

“ Me! And what do you see aristocratic about me, pray?” 

“ Why, sir, you don’t look like the rest of us. Your very walk 
is different— your language, manners, dress, habits and opinions, 
all differ from those of the Dukes County bar. How, to my notion, 
that is being exclusive and peculiar; and whatever is peculiar is 
aristocratic, is it not?” 

Here Dunscomb and his nephew burst out in a laugh; and, for a 
few minuies, Mary Monson was forgotten. Timms was quite in 
earnest; for he had fallen iuto the every-day notions, in this respect, 
and it was not easy to get him out of them. 


i’HE WAYS OF THE HOUR. $11 

“ Perhaps the Dukes County bar contains the aristocrats, and I 
am the serf!” said the counselor. 

“ That can not be — you must be the aristocrat, if any there be 
among us. 1 don’t know why it is so, but so it is; yes, you are the 
aristocrat, if there be one at our bar.” 

Jack smiled, and looked funny; but he had the discretion to hold 
his tongue. He had heal'd that a Duke of Norfolk, the top of the 
English aristocracy, was so remarkable for his personal habits as 
actually to be offensive; a man who, according to Timms’s notions, 
would have been a long way down the social ladder; but who, 
nevertheless, was a top peer, it not a top sawyer. It was easy to 
see that Timms confounded a gentleman with an aristocrat; a con- 
fusion in ideas that is very common, and which is far irom being 
unnatural, when it is remembered how few formerly acquired any 
of the graces of deportment who had not previously attained posi- 
tive, exclusive, political rights. As tor the attorney general and his 
report, Jack had sufficient sagacity to see it was a document that 
said one thing and meant another: professing deference for a peo- 
ple that it did not stop to compliment with the possession of either 
common honesty or good manners. 

“ I hope my aristocracy is not likely to affect the interests of my 
client.” 

“No; there is little danger of that. It is the democracy of the 
Burtons which will do that. 1 learn from Johnson that they are 
coming out stronger and stronger; and I feel certain Williams is 
sure of their testimony. By the way, sir, 1 had a hint from him, 
as we left the court-house, that the five thousand dollars might yet 
take him from the field.” 

“ This Mr. Williams, as well as yourself, Timms, must be more 
cautious, or the law will yet assert its power. It is very much hum- 
bled, 1 am aware, under the majesty of the people and a feeble ad- 
ministration of its authority; but its arm is long, and its gripe po- 
tent, when it chooses to exert its force. Take my advice, and have 
no more to do with such arrangements.” 

The dinner-bell put an epd to the discussion. Timms vanished 
like a ghost; but Dunscomb, whose habits were gentleman-like, and 
who knew that Mrs. Horton had assigned a particular seat to him, 
moved more deliberately; following his nephew about the time 
Timms was half through the meal. 

An American tavern-dinner, during the sitting of the circuit, is 
everyway worthy of a minute and graphic description; but our 
limits will hardly admit of our assuming the task. If “ misery 
makes a man acquainted with stranse bed-fellows,” so does tnelaw. 
Judges, advocates, witnesses, sheriffs, clerks, constables, and not 
unfrequently the accused, dine in common, with railroad speed. 
The rattling of knives, forks, and spoons, the clatter of plates, the 
rushing of waiters, landlord, landlady, chamber-maids, hostler and 
bar-keeper included, produce a confusion that would do lionor to 
the most profound “ republican simplicity.” Everything approaches 
a state of nature but the eatables; and they are invariably overdone. 
On an evil day, some Yankee invented an article termed a “ cook, 
ing-stove;” and since its appearance everything like good cookery 
has vanished from the common American table. There is plenty 


212 THE WAYS OF THE HOUE. 

spoiled; abundance abused. Of made dishes, with the exception 
of two or three of very simple characters, there never were any; 
and these have been burned to cinders by the baking processes of 
the “ cook-stoves. ” • 

It matters little, however, to the convives of a circuit-court dinner, 
what the dishes are called, or of what they are composed. “ Haste ” 
forbids “ taste;” and it actually occurred that day, as it occurs al- 
most invariably on such occasions, that a very clever country practi- 
tioner was asked the materiel of the dish he had been eating, and he 
could not tell it! Talk of the mysteries of French cookery! The 
“ cook-stove ” produces more mystery than all the art of all the 
culinary artists of Paris; and this, too, on a principle that tallies ad- 
mirably with that of the purest “republican simplicity;” since it 
causes all things to taste alike. 

To a dinner of this stamp Dunscomb now sat down, just ten min- 
utes after the first clatter of a plate was heard, and just as the only 
remove was seen, in the form of slices of pie, pudding and cake. 
With his habits, railroad speed or lightning like eating could find 
no favor; and he and Jack got their dinner, as best they might, 
amid the confusion and remnant of the close of such a repast. Nine- 
tenths of those who had so lately been at work as trencher-men 
were now picking their teeth, smoking cigars, or preparing fresh 
quids for the afternoon. A few clients were already holding their 
lawyers by the button ; and here and there one of the latter led the 
way to his room to “settle” some slander cause in which the 
plaintiff had got frightened. 

It is a bad s,ign when eating is carried on without conversation. 
To converse, however, at such a table, is morally if not physically 
impossible. Morally, because each man’s mind is so intent on get- 
ting as much as he wants, that it is almost impossible to bring his 
thoughts to bear on an} r other subject; physically, on account of 
the clatter, a movement in which an eclipse of a plate by the body 
of a waiter is no unusual thing, and universal activity of the teeth. 
Conversation under such circumstances, would be truly a sort of 
ventriloquism; the portion of the human frame included in the term 
being all in all just at that moment. 

Notwithstanding those embarrassments and unpleasant accom- 
paniments, Dunscomb and his nephew got their dinners, and were 
about to quit the table as McBrain entered. The doctor would not 
expose his bride to the confusion of the common table, where there 
was so much that is revolting to all trained in the usages of good 
company, singularly blended with a decency of deportment, and a 
consideration for the rights of each, that serve to form bright spots 
in American character; but he had obtained a more private room 
for the females of his party. 

“ We should do pretty well,” observed McBrain, in explaining his 
accommodations, “ were it not for a troublesome neighbor in an ad- 
joining room, who is either insane or intoxicated. Mrs. Horton 
has put us in your wing, and 1 should think you must occasionally 
hear from him too?” 

“ The man is constantly drunk, they tell me, and is a little trouble- 
some at times. On the whole, however, he does not annoy me 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 213 

much. I shall take the liberty of dining with you to-morrow, Ned; 
this eating against time does not agree with my constitution.” 

“ To-morrow! 1 was thinking that my examination would be 
ended this afternoon, and that we might return to town in the morn- 
ing. You will remember I have patients to attend to.” 

“ Y"ou will have more reason for patience. If you get through in 
a week, you will be lucky.” 

“ It is a curious case! 1 find all the local faculty ready to swear 
through thick and thin against her. My own opinion is fixed— but 
what is the opinion of one man against those of several in the same 
profession?” 

“ We will put that question to Mrs. Horton, who is coming to ask 
how we have dined. Thank’ee, my good Mrs. Horton, we have 
done remarkably well, considering all the circumstances.” 

The landlady was pleased, and smirked, and expressed -her grati- 
fication. The sous entendu -ot Dunscomb was lost upon her; and 
human vanity is very apt to accept the flattering, and to overlook 
the disagreeable. She was pleased that the great Y ork lawyer was 
satisfied. 

Mrs. Horton was an American landlady, in the strictest sense of 
the word. This implies many features distinct from her European 
counterpart; some of which tell greatly in her favor, and others not 
so much so. Decency of exterior, and a feminine deportment, are so 
characteristic of the sex in this country, that they need scarcely be 
adverted to. There were no sly jokes, no doubles entendres with 
Mrs. Horton; who maintained too grave a countenance to admit of 
such liberties. Then, she was entirely free from the little exped- 
ients of a desire to gain that are naturally enough adopted in older 
communities, where tbe pressure, of numbers drives the poor to- 
their wits’ end in order to live. American abundance had gener- 
ated American liberality in Mrs. Horton; and it one of her guests 
asked for bread, she would give him the loaf. She was, moreover, 
what the country round termed “accommodating;” meaning that 
she was obliging and good-natured. Her faults were a fierce love 
of gossip, concealed under a veil of great indifference and modesty, 
a prying curiosity, and a determination to know everything, touch- 
ing everybody, who ever came under her roof. This last propensity 
had got her into difficulties, several injurious reports having been 
traced to her tongue, which was indebted to her imagination for 
fully one half of what she had circulated. It is scarcely necessary 
to add, that, among the right set, Mrs. Horton was a great talker. 
As Dun s scomb was a favorite, he was not likely to escape on the 
present occasion; the room being clear of all the guests but those 
of his own party. 

“ I am glad to get a little quiet talk with you, Squire Dunscomb,” 
the landlady commenced; “ for a body can depend on what is heard 
from such authority. Do they mean to hang Mary Monson?” 

“ It is rather premature to ask that question, Mrs. Horton. The 
jury is impaneled, and there we stand at present.” ' 

“ Is it a good jury? Some of our Dukes County juries are none 
too good, they tell me.” 

“ The whole institution is a miserable contrivance for the ad- 


214 


THE WAYS OE THE HOUR. 


ministration of justice. Could a higher class of citizens compose 
the juries, the system might still do, with a lew improvements.” 

“ Why not elect them?” demanded the landlady, who was, ex 
officio, a politician, much as women are usually politicians in this 
country, in other words, she pit her opinions, without knowing 
their reasons. 

‘‘God forbid, my good Mrs. Horton— we have elective judges; 
that will do for the present. Too much of a good thing is as in- 
jurious as the positively bad. 1 prefer the present mode of drawing 
lots.” 

“ Rave you got a Quaker in the box? If you have, you are safe 
enough.” 

“ 1 doubt if the district attorney would suffer that; although he 
Appears to be kind and considerate. The man who goes into that 
box must be prepared to hang it necessary.” 

“ For my part, 1 wish all hanging was done away with. 1 can 
see no good that hanging can do a man. ” 

“ You mistake the object, my dear Mrs. Horton, though your 
argument is quite as good as many that are openly advanced on 
the same side of the question.” 

*‘ Just hear me, squire,” rejoined the woman; for she loved dear- 
ly to get into a discussion on any question that she was accustomed 
to hear debated among her guests. “ The country hangs a body to 
reform a body; and what good can that do when a body is dead?” 

*‘ Very ingeniously put,” returned the counselor, politely ottering 
his box to the landlady, who took a few grains; and then deliber- 
ately helping himself to a pinch ot snuff — “ quite as ingeniously as 
much ot the argument that appears in public. The objection lies to 
the premises, and not to the deduction, which is absolutely logical 
and just A hanged body is certainly an unreformed body; and, 
as you say, it is quite useless to hang in order to reform.” 

‘‘There!” exclaimed the woman in triumph — “1 told Squire 
Timms that a gentleman who knows as much as you do must be 
on our side. Depend on one thing, Lawyer Dunscomb, and you 
too, gentlemen— depend on it, that Mary Monson will never be 
hanged.” 

This was said with a meaning so peculiar, that it struck Duns- 
comb, who watched the woman’s earnest countenance while she 
was speaking, with undeviating interest and intensity. 

“It is mp duty and my wish, Mrs. Horton, to believe as much, 
and to make others believe it also, if 1 can,” he answered, now 
anxious to prolong a discourse that a moment before he had found 
tiresome. 

“ You can, if you will only try. 1 believe in dreams— and 1 
dreamt a week ago that Mary Monson would be acquitted. It 
would be ag’in all our new notions to hang so nice a Jady.” 

“ Our tastes might take offense at it; and taste is of some influence 
yet, 1 am bound to agree with you.” 

“ But you do agree with me in the uselessness of hanging, when 
the object is to reform?” 

“ Unfortunately for the force of that argument, my dear landlady, 
society does not punish for the purposes of reformation — that is a 
very common blunder of superficial philanthropists.” 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 215 

“ Not for the purposes of reformation, squire! You astonish me! 
'Why, for what else should it punish?” 

‘‘For its own protection. To prevent others from committing 
murder. Have you no other reason than your dream, my trood 
Mrs. Horton, for thinking: Mary Monson will be acquitted?”* 

The woman put on a knowing look, and nodded her head signifi- 
cantly. At the same time, she glanced toward the counselor’s com- 
panions, as much as to- say that their presence prevented her being 
more explicit. 

‘‘Ned, do me the favor to go to your wife, and tell her 1 shall 
stop in, and say a kind woid as 1 pass her door;— and, Jack, go and 
hid Sarah be in Mrs. McBrain’s parlor, ready to give me my morn- 
ing’s kiss.” 

The doctor and John complied, leaving Dunscomb alone with the 
woman. 

“ May 1 repeat the question, my good landlady? , Why do you 
think Mary Monson is to be acquitted?” asked Dunscomb, in one 
of his softest tones. 

Mrs. Horton mused, seemed anxious to speak, but struggling with 
some power that withheld her. One of her hands was la a pocket 
where the jingling of keys and ptnce made its presence known 
Drawing forth this hand mechanically, Dunscomb saw that it con- 
tained several eagles. The woman cast her eyes on the gold, re- 
turned it hastily to her pocket, rubbed her forehead, and seemed 
the wary, prudent landlady once more. 

“ 1'liope you like your room, squire,” she cried, in a thoroughly 
inn-keeping spirit. It’s the very best in this house; though I’m 
obliged to tell Mrs. McBrain the same story as to her apartment. 
But you have the best. You have a troublesome neighbor between 
you, I’m afraid; but he’ll not be there many days, and I do all 1 
can to keep him quiet.” 

“Is that man crazy?” asked the counselor, rising, perceiving 
that he had no more to expect from the woman just then; “ or is 
he only drunk? 1 hear him groan, and then 1 hear him swear; 
though 1 can not understand what he says.” 

“ He’s sent here by his friends; and your wing is the only place 
we have to keep him in. When a body is well paid, squire, I sup- 
pose you know that the fee must not be forgotten? Now, inn- 
keepers have fees, as well as you gentlemen of the bar. How won- 
derfully Timms is getting along, Mr. Dunscomb!” 

“ I believe his practice increases; and they tell me he stands next 
to Mr. Williams in Dukes. ” 

“ He does, indeed; and a ‘bright particular star,’ as the poet 
says, has he got to be!” 

“ If he be a star at all,” answered the counselor, curling his lips, 
“ it must be a very particular one, indeed. I am sorry to leave you, 
Mrs. Horton; but the intermission is nearly up.” 

Dunscomb gave a little friendly nod, which the landlady returned ; 
the former went his way with singular coolness of manner, when it 
is remembered that on him rested the responsibility of defending a 
fellow-creature from the gallows. What rendered this deliberation 
more remarkable, was the fact that he had no faith in the virtue of 
Mrs. Horton’s dream. 


216 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

Wilt thou behold me sinking in my woes, 

And wilt thou not reach out a friendly arm, 

To raise me from amidst this plunge of sorrow? 

Addison'. 

“Call the names of the jurors, "Mr. Clerk,” said the judge. 
“ Mr. Sheriff, I do not see the prisoner in her place.” 

This produced a stir. The jurors were called, and answered to 
their names; and shortly alter, Mary Monson appeared. The last 
was accompanied by the ladies, who might now be said to belong 
to her party, though no one but herself and Marie Moulin came 
within the bar. 

There was profound stillness in the hall, for it was felt that now 
the issue of life or death was actually approaching. Mary Monson 
gazed, not with disquietude but interest, at the twelve men who 
were to decide on her innocence or guilt — men of habits and opinions 
so different from her own — men so obnoxious to prejudices against 
those whom the accidents of life had made objects of envy or hatred 
— men too much occupied with the cares of existence to penetrate 
the arena oi thought, and who consequently held their opinions at 
the mercy of others — men unskilled, because without practice, in 
the very solemn and important office now imposed on them by the 
law— men who might indeed be trusted, so long as they would defer 
to the court and reason, but who were terrible rfbd dangerous, when 
they listened, as is too apt to be the case, to the suggestions of their 
own impulses, ignorance and prejudice. Yet these men were Mary 
Monson’s peers, in the eyes of the law — would have been so viewed 
,and accepted in a case involving the feelings and practices of social 
castes, about wnich they knew absolutely nothing, or, what is 
•worse than nothing, a very little through the medium of misrepre- 
sentation and mistaken conclusions. 

It is the fashion to extol the institution of the jury. Our own ex- 
perience, by no means trifling, as foreman, as suitor, and as a dis- 
interested spectator, does not lead us to coincide in this opinion. A 
narrative of the corrupt, misguided, partial, prejudiced, or ignorant 
conduct that we have ourselves witnessed in these bodies, would 
make a legend of its own. The power that most misleads such 
men is one unseen by themselves, half the time, and is consequent- 
ly so much the more dangerous. The feelings of neighborhood, 
political hostility, or parly animosities, are among the commonest 
evils that justice has to encounter, when brought in contact with 
tribunals thus composed. Then come the feelings engendered by 
social castes, an inexhaustible source of evil passions. Mary Mon- 
son had been told of the risks she ran from that source; though she 
had also been told, and with great truth, that so much of the spirit 
of God still remains in the hearts and minds of men, as to render a 
majority of those who were to be the arbiters of her fate conscien- 
tious and careful in a capital case. Perhaps, as a rale, the singu- 
larity of, his situation, with a man wlio finds himself, for the first 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 217 

time, sitting as a juror in a trial tor a human life, is one of the most 
availiable correctives of his native tendencies to do evil. 

“ Mr. District Attorney, are you ready to proceed?” inquired the 
judge. 

This functionary rose, bowed to the court and jury, and com- 
menced his opening. His manner was unpretending, natural, and. 
solemn. Although high talent and original thought are very rare 
in this country, as they are everywhere else, there is a vast fund of 
intellect of a secondary order, ever at the command of the public. 
The district attorney of Dukes was a living witness of this truth. 
He saw afi within his reach clearly, and, possessing great experi- 
ence, he did his dut3 r , on this occasion, in a very creditable manner. 
No attempt was made to awaken prejudice of any sort against the 
accused. She was presented by the grand inquest, and it was his 
and their painful duty, including his honor on the bench, to inves- 
tigate this matter, and make a solemn decision, on their oaths. 
Mary Monson was entitled to a fair hearing, to all the advantages 
that the lenity of the criminal law of a very humane state of society 
could afford, and “ for God’s sake let her be acquitted should the 
State fail to establish her guilt!”' 

Mr. District Attorney then proceeded to give a narrative of the 
events as he supposed them to have occurred. He spoke of the 
Goodwins as “ voor, but honest ” people, a sort of illustration that 
is in much favor, and deservedly so, when true. “It seems, gen- 
tlemen,” the district attorney continued, “ that the wife had a pro- 
pensity, or a fancy, to collect gold pieces, no doubt as a store 
against the wanls of age. This money was kept in a stocking, ac- 
cording to the practice of country ladies, and was often exhibited to 
the neighbors. We may have occasion, gentlemen, to show you 
that some fifteen or twenty persons, at different times, have seen 
and handled this gold. "You need not be told what natural curiosity 
is, but must all know how T closely persons little accustomed to see 
money of this sort, would be apt to examine the more rare pieces, 
in particular. There happened to be several of these pieces among 
the gold of Mrs. Goodwin; and one of them was an Italian or a 
Dut&i coin, of the value of four dollars, which commonly goes by 
the name of the king whose likeness is on the piece. This Dutch or 
Italian coin, no matter which, or William, was seen, and handled, 
and examined by several persons, as we shall show you. 

“ Now, gentlemen, the stocking that contained the gold coins 
was kept in a bureau, which bureau was saved from the fire, with 
all its contents: but the stocking and the gold, were missing! 
These facts will be shown to you by proof that puts them beyond 
a peradventure. We shall next show to you, gentlemen, that on a 
public examination of the prisoner at the bar, the contents of her 
purse were laid open, and the Dutch or Italian coin I have men- 
tioned was found, along with more than a hundred dollars of other 
pieces, which being in American coin, can not so readily be identi- 
fied. 

“ The prosecution relies, in a great degree, on the proof that wfill 
be offered in connection with this piece of money, to establish the 
guilt of tha prisoner. We are aware that, when this piece of money 
was found on her person, she affirmed it was hers; that she had 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


218 

been possessed of two such pieces, and that the one seen in Mrs. 
Goodwin’s stocking had been a present from herself to that unfortu- 
nate woman. 

“ Gentlemen, if persons accused of crimes could vindicate them- 
selves by their own naked statements, there would be very few' con- 
victions. Reason tells us that proof must be met by proof. Asser- 
tions will not be received, as against the accused, nor will they be 
taken in her favor. Your own good sense will tell you, gentlemen, 
that if it be shown that Dorothy Goodwin possessed this particular 
piece of gold, valued it highly, and was in the practice of hoarding 
all the gold she could lay her hands on lawf uly ; that the said Dorothy 
Goodwin’s residence was burned, she herself murdered by a savage 
and cruel blow or blows on the occiput, or head ; that Mary Monson, 
the prisoner at the bar, knew of the existence of this litile stock of 
gold coins, had seen it, handled it, and doubtless coveted it; residing 
in the same house, with easy access to the bedside of the unhappy 
couple, with easy access to the bureau, to the keys which opened 
that bureau, for its drawers were found locked, just as Mrs. Good- 
win was in the habit of leaving them; but, gentlemen, if all ibis be 
shown to you, and we then trace the aforesaid piece of coin to the 
pocket of Mary Monson, we make out a pnma facie case of guilt, as 
1 conceive; a case that will throw on her the onus of showing that 
she came in possession of the said piece of coin lawfully, and by no 
improper means. Failing of this, your duty will be plain. 

“It is incumbent on the prosecution to make out its case, either 
by direct proof, on the oaths of credible winesses, or by such cir- 
cumstances as shall leave no doubt in your minds of the guilt of the 
accused. It is also incumbent that we show that the crimes, of 
which the prisoner is accused, have been committed, and committed 
by her. 

“ Gentlemen, we shall offer you this proof.. We shall show you 
thatlhe skeletons, of which 1 have spoken, and which lie under that 
pall, sad remains of a most ruthless scene, are beyond all question 
the skeletons of Peter and Dorothy Goodwin. This will be shown 
to you by proof; though all who know the parties, can almost see 
the likeness in these sad relics of mortality. Peter Goodwin, as 
will be shown to you, Was a very short, but sturdy man, while 
Dorothy, his wife, was a woman of large size. The skeletons meet 
this description exactly. They were found on the charred wood of 
the bedstead the unhappy couple habitually used, and on the Very 
spot where they had passed so mauy previous nights in security and 
peace. Everything goes to corroborate the identity of the persons 
whose remains have been found, and I regret it should be my dut} r to 
add, that everything goes to fasten the guilt of these murders on the 
prisoner at, the bar. 

“ Gentlemen, although we rely mainly on the possession of the 
Dutch or Italian coin, no matter which, to establish the case for the 
State, we shall offer you a great deal of sustaining arid secondary 
proof. In the first place, the fact that a female, young, handsome, 
well, nay, expensively educated, coming from nobody knows whence, 
to go nobody knows whither, should suddenly appear in a place as 
retired as the house oi Peter Goodwin, why no one can say, is in 
itself very suspicious. Gentlemen, 4 all is not gold that glit- 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


219 


ters.’ Many a man, and many a woman, in places large as New 
York, are not what they seem tq be. They dress, and laugh, and 
sing, and appear to be among the gayest of the gay, when they do 
not know where to lay their heads at night. Large towns are moral 
blotches, they say, on the face of the community, and they conceal 
many things that will not bear the light. From one of these large 
towns, it is to be presumed from her dress, manners, education, 
amusements, and all belonging to her, came Mary Monson, to ask 
an asylum in the dwelling of the Goodwins. Gentlemen, why did 
she come? Had she heard of the hoard of Mrs. Goodwin, and did. 
she crave the possession of the gold? These questions it will be 
your duty to answer in your verdict. Should the reply be in the 
affirmative, you obtain, at once, a direct clew to the motives of the 
murder. 

“ Among the collateral proof that will be offered are the follow- 
ing circumstances, to which 1 now ask your particular attention, in 
order that you may give to the testimony its proper value. It will 
be shown that Mary Monson had a large sum in gold in her posses- 
sion, after the arson and murders, and consequently after the rob- 
bery, but no one knew of her having any before. It will be shown 
that she has money in abundance, scattering it right and left, as. we 
suppose to procure her acquittal, and this money, we believe she 
took from the bureau of Mrs. Goodwin — how much, is not known. 
It is thought that he sum was very large; the gold alone amounted 
to near a thousand dollars, and two witnesses will testify to a still 
larger amount in bank-notes. The Goodwins talked of purchasing- 
a farm, valued at five thousand dollars; and as they were Jknown 
never to run in debt, the fair inference is, that they must have had 
at least that sum by them. A legacy was left Dorothy Goodwin 
within the last six months, which we hear was very considerable, 
and we hope to be able to put a witness on the stand who will tell 
you all about it. 

“ But, gentlemen, a circumstance worthy of all attention in an 
investigation like this, is connected with an answer to this question: 
Who is Mary Monson? What are her parentage, birthplace, occu- 
pation, and place of residence? Why did she come to Biberry at 
all? In a word, what is her past history? Let this be satisfactorily 
explained, and a great step is taken toward her vindication from 
these most grave charges. Shall we have witnesses to character? 
No one will be happier to listen to them than myself. My duty is 
far from pleasant. L sincerely hope the prisoner will find lawful 
means to convince you of her innocence. There is not one within 
the walls of this building who will hear such a verdict, if sustained 
by law and evidence, with greater pleasure than it will be heard by 
me.” 

After pursuing this vein some time longer, the worthy func- 
tionary of the State showed a little of that cloven foot which seems 
to grow on all, even to the cleanest heels, who look to the popular 
voice for preferment. No matter who the man is, rich or poor, 
young or old, foolish or wise, he bows down before the idol of 
Numbers, and there worships. Votes being the one thing wanted, 
must be bought by sacrifices on the altar of conscience. Now it is 
by wild, ancT, half the time, impracticable schemes of philanthropy, 


220 ' THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 

that while they seem to work good to the majority, are quite likely 
to disregard the rights of the minority; now they are flourishes 
against negro slavery, oi a revolution in favor of the oppressed in- 
habitants Q'f Cnm-Tartary, ot the real state of which country we are 
all as ignorant as its inhabitants are ignorant of us; now, it’s an 
exemption law, to enable a man to escape from the payment of his 
just debts, directly in the teeth of the sound policy, not to say 
morality, that if a man owe he should be made to pay as long as he 
has anything to do it with; now, it is a hymn in praise of liberty 
that the poet neither comprehends nor cares to look into further 
than may suit his own selfish patriotism; and now, it is some other 
ot the thousand modes adopted by the designing to delude the masses 
and advance themselves. 

. On this occasion the district attorney was very cautious, but he 
showed the cloven foot. He paid a passing tribute to the god of 
Numbers, worshiped before the hierarchy of votes. “ Gentlemen,” 
he continued, ‘‘like myself, you are plain, unpretending citizens. 
Neither you, nor your wives and daughters, speak in foreign 
tongues, or play on foreign instruments of music. We. have been 
brought up in republican simplicity, [God bless it! say we, could v 
we ever meet with it], and lay no claims to superiority of any sort. 
Our place is in the body of the nation, and there we are content to 
remain. W~e shall pay no respect to dress, accomplishments, foreign 
languages, or foreign music; but the evidence sustaining us, will 
show the world that the law frowns as well on the great as on the 
little; on the pretending, as well as on the unpretending.” 

As these grandiose sentiments were uttered, several ot the juror’s 
half rose from their seats, in the eagerness to hear, and looks ot ap- 
probation passed from eye to eye. This was accepted as good re- 
publican doctrine; no one there seeing, or feeling, as taste and truth 
would have shown, that the real pretension was on the side of an 
exaggerated self-esteem, that prompted to resistance, ere resistance 
was necessary, under the influence of, perhaps, the lowest passion 
of human nature— we allude to envy. With a little more in the 
same vein, the district attorney concluded his opening. 

The great coolness, not to say indifference, with which Mary 
Monson listened to this speech, was the subject of general comment 
among the members of the bar. At times she had been attentive, 
occasionally betraying surprise; then indignation would just gleam 
in her remarkable eye ; but on the whole, an uncommon calmness 
reigned in her demeanor. She had prepared tablets for notes; and 
twice she wrote in them as the district attorney proceeded. This 
was when he adverted to her past life, and when he commented on 
the Dutch coin. While he was speaking of castes, flattering one set 
■under the veil of pretending humility, and undermining their op- 
posites, a look of quiet contempt was apparent in every feature of 
her very expressive face. 

“ If it please the court,” said Dunscomb, rising in his deliberate 
way, ‘‘ before the prosecution proceeds with its witnesses, I could 
wish to appeal to the courtesy ot the gentlemen on the other side for 
a list of their names.” 

“ I believe we are not bound to furnish any such list,” answered 
Williams, quickly. 


THE WAYS ^OF THE HOUR. . 221 

“ Perhaps not bound exactly, in law; but, it strikes me, bound in 
justice. This is a trial for life; the proceedings are instituted by the 
State. The object is justice, not vengeance— the protection of society 
through the agency of an impartial, though stern justice. The 
State can not wish to effect anything by surprise. We are accused of 
murder and arson, with no other notice of what is to be shown, or 
how anything is to be shown, than what is contained in the v bill or 
complaint. Any one can see how important it may be to us, lo be 
apprised of the names of Ike witnesses a little in advance, that we 
may inquire into character and note probabilities. 1 do not insist on 
any right; out 1 ask a favor that humanity sanctions.” 

If it please the court,” said Williams, “ we have an important 
trust. I will here say that I impute nothing improper to either of 
the prisoner’s counsel; but it is my duty to suggest the necessity of 
our being cautious. A great deal of money has been expended al- 
ready in this case, and there is always danger of witnesses being 
bought off. On behalf of my client, 1 protest against the demand’s 
being complied with.” 

“ T he court has no objection to the course asked by the prisoner’s 
counsel,” observed the judge, ” but can not direct it." The State can 
never wish its* officers to be harsh or exacting; but it is their duty to 
be prudent. Mr. District Attorney, are you ready with your evi- 
dence? Time is precious, sir.” 

The testimony for the prosecution was now offered. We shall 
merely advert to most of it, reserving our details for those witnesses 
on whom the cause might be said to turn. Two very decent -looking 
and well-behaved men, farmers who resided in tlie vicinity of Bi- 
berry, were put on the stand to establish the leading heads of the 
case. They had known Peter and Dorothy Goodwin ; had often 
stopped at the house; and were familiarly acquainted with the old 
couple, as neighbors. Kemembered the fire — was present at it, to- 
ward its close. Saw the prisoner there; saw her descend, by a lad- 
der; and assisted in saving her effects. Several trunks, carpet-bags, 
bandboxes, writing-desks, musical instruments, etc., etc. All were 
saved. ‘ ‘ It seemed to them that they had been 'placed near the windows , 
in away to be handy . ” After the fire, had never seen or heard 
anything of the old man and his wife, unless two skeletons that had 
been found were their skeletons. Supposed them to be the skele- 
tons of Peter Goodwin ana his wife.” Here the remains were for 
the first time on that trial exposed to view. “ Those are the same 
skeletons, should say— had no doubt of it; they are about the size of 
the old couple. The husband was short; the wife tall. Little or 
no difference in their height. Had never seen the stocking or the 
gold; but had heard a good deal of talk of them, having lived near 
neighbors to the Goodwins five and-twenty years.” 

Dunscomb conducted the cross-examination. He was close, dis: 
criminating, and judicious. Separating the hearsay and gossip from 
the facts known, he at once threw the former to the winds, as matter 
not to be received by the jury. We shall give a few of his questions 
and their answers that have a bearing on the more material points 
of the trial. 

”1 understand you to say, witness, that you knew both , Peter 
Goodwin and his wife?” 


222 THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 

“ 1 did— 1 knew them well— saw them almost every day of my 
life.” 

. For how long a time?”" 

“ This many a day. For five-and-twenty years, or a little more.” 

“ Will you say that you have been in the habit of seeing Peter 
Goodwin aud his wife daily, or almost daily, for live-and-twenty 
years?” 

“ If not right dowm daily, quite often; as often as once or twice a 
week, certainly. 1 ' 

“ Is this material, Mr. Dunscomb?” inquired the juflge. “The 
time of the court is very precious.” 

“ It is material, your honor, as showing the looseness with which 
witnesses testify; and as serving to caution the jury how they re- 
ceive their evidence. The opening of the prosecution shows us that 
if the charge is to be made out at all against the prisoner, it is to be 
made out on purely circumstantial evidence. It is not pretended 
that any one saw Mary Monson kill the Goodwins; but the crime is 
to be inferred from a series of collateral facts, that will be laid be- 
fore the court and jury. 1 think your hoijor will see how impor- 
tant it is, under the circumstances, to analyze the testimony, even 
on points that may not seem to bear directly on the imputed crimes. 
If a witness testify loosely, the jury ought to be made to see it. 1 
have a life to defend, your honor will remember.” 

“ Proceed, sir; the court will grant you the widest latitude.” 

“You now say, as often as once or twice a week, witness; on 
reflection, will you swear to even that?” 

“ Well, if not twice, 1 am sure I can say once.” 

Dunscomb was satisfied with this answer, which went to show 
that the witness could reply a little at random, and was not always 
certain of his tacts, when pressed. 

“ Are you certain that Dorothy Goodwin is dead?” 

“ 1 suppose J am as certain as any of the neighbors.” 

“ That is not an answer to my question. Will you, and do you 
swear on your oath, that Peter Goodwin, the person named in the 
indictment, is actually dead?” 

“I’ll swear that I think so.” 

“That is not what I want. Y r ou see those skeletons— will you 
say, on your oath, that you know them to be the skeletons of Peter 
and Dorothy Goodwin?” 

“ I’ll swear that 1 believe it.” 

That does not meet the question. Do you know it?” ✓ 

“ How can 1 know it? I'm not a doctor, or a surgeon. No, 1 
do not absolutely know it. Still, 1 believe that one is the skeleton 
of Peter Goodwin, and the other the skeleton of his wife.” 

“ Which do you suppose to be the skeleton of Peter Goodwin?” 

This question puzzled the witness not a little. To the ordinary 
eye, there was scarcely any difference in the appearance of these 
sad remains; though one skeleton had been ascertained by actual 
measurement to be about an inch aud a halt longer than the other. 
This fact was known tn all in Biberry; but it w-as not easy to say 
which was which, at a glance. The witness took the safe course, 
therelore, of putting: his opinion altogether on a different ground. 

“ 1 do not pretend to tell one from the other,” was the answer. 


THE WATS OF THE HOUR. 

“ What 1 know of my own knowledge ie this, and this onlyt 1 knew 
Peter and Dorothy Goodwin; knew the house they lived in; know 
that the house has been burned down, and that the old folks are not 
about their old ha’nts. The skeletons I never saw until they were 
moved from the place where they tell me they were found; for 1 
was busy helping to get the articles saved under cover.” 

“ Then you do not pretend to know which skeleton is that of a 
man, or which that of a woman?” 

This question was ingeniously put, and had the effect to make all 
the succeeding witnesses shy on this point ; for it created a belief that 
there was a difference that might be recognized by those who are 
skilled in such matters. The witness assented to the view of Duns- 
comb; and having been so tar sifted as to show he knew no more 
than all the rest of the neighbors, he was suffered to quit the stand. 
The result was that very little was actually established by means of 
this testimony. It was evident that the jury was now on the alert, 
and not disposed to receive all that was said as gospel. 

The next point was to make out all the known facts of the fire, 
and of the finding of the skeletons. The two witnesses just exam- 
ined had seen the close of the fire, had heard of the skeletons, but 
had laid very little more to the purpose. Dunscomb thought it 
might be well to throw in a Hint to this effect in the present state of 
the case, as he now did by remarking — 

‘‘1 trust that the district attorney will see precisely where he 
stands. All that has yet been shown by legal proof are the facts 
that there were such persons as Peter and Dorothy Goodwin; facts 
we are not at all disposed to denv — ” 

“ And that they have not appeared in the flesh since the night of 
the fire?” put in Williams. 

‘‘Not to the witnesses; but, to how many others, does notap- 
pear.” 

“ Does the learned counsel mean to set up the defense that Good- 
win and his wife are not dead?” 

“ It is for the prosecution to show the contrary affirmatively. If 
it be so. it is fail to presume they can do it. All 1 now contend for, 
is the fact that we have no proof as yet that either is dead. We 
have proof that the house was burned; but we are now traversing 
an indictment for murder, and not that for arson. As yet, it strikes 
me, therefore, uothing material has been shown.” 

“ It is certainly material, Mr. Dunscomb, that there should have 
been such persons as the Goodwins, and that they have disappeared 
since the night of the fire; and this much is proved, unless you im- 
peach the witnesses,” observed the judge. 

“ Well, sir, that much we are not disposed to deny. There vcere 
such persons as the Goodwins, and they have disappeared frorh the 
neighborhood. We believe that much ourselves.” 

“ Crier, call Peter Bacon.” 

Bacon came forward, dressed in an entire new suit of clothes, and 
appearing much more respectable than was his wont. This man’s 
testimony was almost word for word as it has already been given in 
the coroner’s inquest. He established the facts of the fire, about 
which there could be no prudent contention indeed, and of the find- 
ing oi the skeletons; for he had been one of those who aided in first 


224 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


searching the ruins for the remains. This man told his story in 
an extremely vulgar dialect, as we have had already occasion to 
show; but in a very clear, distinct manner. He meant to tell the 
truth, and succeeded reasonably well; tor it does not occur to all 
who have the same upright intentions to effect their purposes as well 
as he did himselt. Dunscomb’s cross-examination was very brief; 
tor he perceived it was useless to attempt to deny what had been 
thus proved. 

“Jane Pope,” called out the district attorney. “Is Mrs. Jane 
Pope in court?” 

The Widow Pope was on the spot, and ready and willing to an- 
swer. She removed her bonnet, took the oath, and was shown to 
the seat with which it is usual to accommodate persons of her sex. 

“ Your name,” said Dunscomb. holding his pen over the paper. 

■ “ Pope— Jane Pope since my mariiage; but Jane Anderson trom 
my parents.” 

Dunscomb listened politely, but recorded no more than the ap- 
pellation of the widow. Mrs. Pope now proceeded to tell her story, 
which she did reasonably Well, though hot without a good deal of 
unnecessary amplitude, and some slight contradictious. It was her 
intention, also, to tell nothing but the truth; hut persons whose 
tongueg move as nimbly as that of this woman’s do not always know 
exactly what they do say. Dunscomb detected the contradictions; 
but he had the tact to see their cause, saw that they were not mater- 
ial, and wisely abstained from confounding whatever of justice 
there was in the defense with points that the jury had probably 
sufficient sagacity to see were of no great moment. He made no 
note* therefore, of these little oversights, and allowed the woman to 
tell her whole story uninterrupted. When it came to his turn to 
cross-examine, however, the duty of so doing was not neglected. 

. “ You say, Mrs. Pope, that you had often seen the stocking in 
which Mrs. Goodwin kept her gold. Of what material was that 
stocking?” 

“ Wool— yes, of blue woolen yarn. A stocking knit by hand, . 
and very darny.” 

“ Should you know the stocking, Mrs. Pope, were you to see it 
again?” , 

“ 1 think 1 might. Dolly Goodwin and I looked over the gold 
together more than once; and the stocking got to be a sort of ac- 
quaintance.” 

“ Was this it?” continued Dunscomb, taking a stocking of the 
sort described from Timms, who sat ready to produce the article at 
th‘e proper moment. 

“ If it please the court,” cried Williams, rising in haste, and pre- 
paring eagerly to interrupt the examination. 

“ Your pardon, sir,” put in Dunscomb, with great self -com* 
mand, but very firmly—” words must not be put into the witness’s 
mouth, nor ideas into her head. She has sworn, may it please your 
honor, to a certain stocking; which stocking she described in her 
examination in chief: and we now ask her if this is that stocking. 
All this is regular, I believe; and 1 trust we are not to be inter- 
rupted. ” 


THE WAYS OE THE HOUB. 


225 


“ Go on, sir,T said the judge; “ the prosecution will not interrupt 
the detense. But time is very precious.” 

“ Is this the stocking?” repeated Dunscomb. 

The woman examined the stocking, looking inside and out, turn- 
ing it over and over, and casting many a curious glance at the places 
that had been mended. 

“ It’s dreadful darney, isn’t it?” she said, looking inquiringly at 
the counselor. 

“ It is as you see, ma’am. 1 have made no alteration in it.” 

<c I declare 1 believe this is the very stocking.” 

“ At the proper time, your honor, we shall show that this is not 
the stocking, if indeed there ever was such a stocking at all,” said 
Timms, rolling up tlje article in question, and handing it to the 
clerk to keep. 

“You saw a certain piece of gold, you say,” resumed Dunscomb, 
“ which piece of gold 1 understand you to say was afterward found 
in the pocket of Mary Monson. Will you have the goodness to say 
whether the piece of gold which you saw in Mrs. Goodwin's pos- 
session is among these ’’—showing a dozen coins; “or whether 
one resembling it is here?” 

The woman was greatly puzzled. She meant to be honest; bad 
fold no more than was true, with the exception of the little embel- 
lishments that her propensity to imagine and talk rendered almost 
unavoidable; but, for the life of her, she could not distinguish the 
piece of money, or its counterpart. After examining the coins for 
several minutes she frankly admitted her ignorance. 

“ It is scarcely necessary to continue this cross-examination,” said 
Dunscomb, looking at his watch. “I shall ask the court to ad- 
journ, and to adjourn over until morning. We have reached the 
hour for lighting candles; but we have agents out in quest of most 
important witnesses; and we ask the loss of this evening as a favor. 
It can make no great difference as to the length of the trial; and the 
jurors will be all the fresher for a good night’s rest.” 

The court acquiesced, and allowed of the adjournment, giving 
the jury the usual charge about conversing or making up their opin- 
ions until they had heard the whole testimony; a charge that both 
Williams and Timms took very good care to render of no use in 
several instances, or as regarded particular individuals. 

A decided impression was made in favor of the prisoner by Mrs. 
Pope’s failure to distinguish the piece of money. In her examina- 
tion in chief she saw no difficulty in recognizing the single piece 
then shown to her, and which was the Dutch coin actually found 
in Mary Monson’s purse; but, when it was put among a dozen 
others resembling it, more or less, she lost all confidence in herself, 
and, to a certain point, completely broke down as a witness. But 
Dunscomb saw that the battle had not yet in truth begun. What 
had passed was merely the skirmishing of light troops, feeling the 
way for the advance of ihe heavy columns and the artillery that 
were to decide the fortunes of the day. 


\ 


8 


226 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR, 


CHAPTER XXI11. 

’Tis the wisest way, upon all tender topics, to be silent; for he who takes 
upon himself to defend a lady’s reputation, only publishes her favors to the 
world. — Cumberland : 

The wing of Horton’s Inn, that contained the room of Duns- 
comb, was of considerable extent, having quite a dozen rooms in it, 
though mostty of the diminutive size of an American tavern bed 
room. The best apartment in it, one with two windows, and of 
some dimensions, was that appropriated to the counselor. The doc- 
tor and his party had a parlor, with two bedrooms; while, between 
these and the room occupied by Dunscomb, was that of the tiouble- 
some guest — the individual who was said to be insane. Most of the 
remainder of the wing, which was much the most quiet and retired 
portion of the house, was used for a betier class of bedrooms. There 
were two rooms, however, that the providence of Horton and his 
wife had set apart for a very different purpose. These were small 
parlors, in which tlm initiated smoked, drank, and played. 

Nothing sooner indicates the school in which a man has been 
educated, than his modes of seeking amusement. One who has been 
accustomed to see innocent relaxation innocently indulged, from 
childhood up, is rarely tempted to abuse those habits which have 
never been associated, in his mind, with notions of guilt, and which, 
in themselves, necessarily imply no moral delinquency Among the. 
liberal, cards, dancing, music, all games of skill and chance that 
can interest the cultivated, and drinking, in moderation and of suita- 
ble liquors, convey no ideas of wrong-doing. As they have been 
accustomed to them from early life, and have seen them practiced 
with decorum and a due regard to the habits of refined society, 
there is no reason ior concealment or consciousness. On the Other 
hand, an exaggerated morality, which has the temerity to enlarge 
the circle of sin beyond the bounds for which it can find any other, 
warranty than its own metaphysical inferences, is very apt to create 
a factitious conscience, that almost invariably takes refuge in that 
vilest of all delinquency — direct hypocrisy. This, we take it, is the 
reason that the reaction of ultra godliness so generally leaves its 
subjects in the mire and slodgh of deception and degradation. The 
very same acts assume different characters, in the hands of these two 
classes of persons; and that which is perfectly innocent with the 
first, affording a pleasant, and in that respect a useful relaxation, 
becomes low, vicious, and dangerous with the other, because tainted 
with the corrupting and most dangerous practices of deception. 
The private wing of Horton’s Inn, to which there has been allusion, 
furnished an example in point of what we mean, within two hours 
of the adjournment of the court. 

In the parlor of Mrs. McBrain, late Dunscomb’s Widow Updyke, 
as he used to call her, a little table, was set in the middle of the 
room, at which Dunscomb himself, the doctor, his new wife and 
Sarah Were seated, at a game of whist. The door was not locked, 
no countenance manifested either a secret consciousness of wrong' 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. j. 227 

f>r an overweening desire to transfer another’s money to its owner’s 
pocket, although a sober sadness might be said to reign in the party, 
the consequence ot the interest all took in the progress of the trial 

Within twenty feet of the spot just mentioned, and in the two lit- 
tle parlors already named, was a very different set collected. It 
consisted of the rowdies of the bar, perhaps tw r o thirds of the re- 
porters in attendance on Mary Monson’s trial, several suitors, four 
or five country doctors, who had been summoned as witnesses, and 
such other equivocal gentry as might aspire to belong to a set as 
polished and exclusive as that we are describing. We will first give 
a moment's attention to the party around the whist-table, in the par- 
lor first described. 

” 1 do not think the prosecution has made out as well, to-day, all 
things considered, as it was generally supposed it would,” observed 
McBrain. “ There is the a?e of trumps, Miss Sarah, and if you can 
follow it with the king, we shall get the odd trick.” 

“ 1 do not think 1 shall follow it. with anything,” answered Sarah, 
throwing down her cards. “ It really seems heartless to be playing 
whist, with a fellow 7 -creature of our acquaintance on trial for her 
life.” 

“ I have not half liked the game,” said the quiet Mrs. McBrain, 
“ but Mr. Dunscomb seemed so much bent on a rubber, 1 scarce 
knew how to refuse him.” 

“ Why, true enough, Tom,” put in the doctor, “ this is all your 
doings, and if there be anything wrong about it, you will have to 
bear the blame.” 

“ Play anything but, a trump, Miss Sarah, and we get the game. 
You are quite right, Ned ” — throwing down the pack— “ the prose- 
cution has not done as well as I feared they might. That Mrs. 
Pope as a wilness 1 dreaded, but her testimony amounts to Very lit- 
tle, in’ itself ; and what she has said, has been pretty well shaken by 
her ignorance of the coin.” 

“ 1 really begin to hope the unfortunale lady may be innocent,” 
said the doctor. 

“Innocent!” exclaimed Sarah— “ surely, Uncle Ned, you can 
never have doubted it!” 

McBrain and Dunscomb exchanged significant glances, and the. 
last was about to answer, when, raising his eyes, he saw a strange 
form glide stealthily into the room, and place itself in a dark cor- 
ner. It was a short, sturdy figure of a man, with all those signs of 
squalid misery in his countenance and dress that usually denote 
menial imbecility. He seemed anxious lo conceal himself, and did 
succeed in getting more than half of his person beneath a shawl of 
Sarah’s, ere lie was seen by any of the party but the counselor. It 
at once occurred to the latter that this was the being who had more 
than ouce disturbed him by his noise, and who Mrs. Horton had 
pretty plainly intimated was out of his mind; though she had main- 
tained a singularly discreet silence for her, touching his history and 
future prospects. She^ believed “ he had been brought to court Dy 
his friends, to get some order, or judgment— maybe, his visit had 
something to do with the new Code, about which- Squire Dunscomb 
said so many hard things.” 

A little scream from Sarah soon apprised all in the room of the 


228 , 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


presence of this disgusting-looking object. She snatched away her 
shawl, leaving the idiot, or madman, or whatever he might be, fully 
exposed to riew, and retreated, herself, behind her uncle’s chair. 

“ 1 fancy you have mistaken your room, my friend,” said Duns- 
comb, mildly. ‘‘ This, as you see, is engaged by a card-party — 1 
take it, you do not play.” 

A look of cunning left very little doubt of the nature of the 
malady with which this unfortunate being was afflicted. He made 
a clutch at tiie cards, laughed, then drew back, and began to 
mutter. 

“ She won’t let me play,” mumbled the idiot— “ shenever would/’ 

“ Whom do you mean by she?” asked Dunscomb. ‘‘Is it any 
one in this house— Mrs. Horton, for instance?” 

Another cunning look, with a shake of the head, for an answer 
in the negative. 

“ Be you Squire Dunscomb, the great York lawyer?” asked the 
stranger, with interest. 

“ Dunscomb ia certainly my name— though 1 have not the pleas- 
ure of knowing yours.” 

‘‘ I haven’t got an} 7 name. They may ask me from morning to 
night, and I won’l tell. She won’t let me.” 

“ By she, you again mean Mrs. Horton, 1 suppose?” 

“ No 1 don’t. Mrs. Horton’s a good woman; she gives me victuals 
and drink.” 

‘‘ Tell us whom do you mean, then?” 

“ Won’t you tell?” 

“ Not unless it be improper to keep the secret. 'Who is this she?’ 7 

“ Why she.” 

“ Ay, but who?” 

“ Mary Mpnaon. If you’re the great lawyer from York, g,nd they 
say you be, you must know all about Mary Monson.” 

‘‘This is very extraordinary!” said Dunscomb; regarding his 
companion, in surprise. “ 1 do know something about Mary Mon- 
son, but not all about her. Can you tell me anything?” 

Here the stranger advanced a little from his corner, listened, as if 
fearful of being surprised then laid a finger on his lip, and made 
the familiar sign for “ hush.” 

“Don’t let her hear you; if you do, you may be sorry for it. 
She’s a witch!” 

“Poor fellow! she seems, in truth, to have bewitched you, as J. 
dare say she may have done many another man.” 

“ That has she! 1 wish you’d tell me what I want to know, if 
you really be the great lawyer from York.” 

“ Put your questions, my friend: I’ll endeavor to answer them.” 

“ Who set fire to the house? Can you tell me that?” 

“ That is a secret yet to be discovered — do you happen to know 
anything about it?” 

“ Do 1? 1 think I do. Ask Mary Monson' she can tell you.” 

All this was so strange, that the whole party now gazed at each 
other in mute astonishment; McBrain bending his looks more in- 
tently on the stranger, in order to ascertain the true nature of the 
mental malady with which he was obviously afflicted. In some re- 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 22 9 

spects the disease wore the appearance of idiocy; then again there 
were gleams of the countenance that savored of absolute madness. 

“ You are of opinion, then, that Mary Monson knows who set fire 
to the house?” 

“ Sartain, she does. 1 know, too, but I won’t tell. They might 
want to hang me, as well as Mary Monson, if 1 told. 1 know too 
much to do anything so foolish. Mary has -said they would hang me, 
if 1 tell. 1 don’t want to be hanged, a bit.” 

A shudder from Sarah betrayed the effect of these words on the 
listeners; and Mrs. McBrain actually rose with the intention. of 
sendng for her daughter, who was then in the jail, consoling the 
much-injured prisoner, as Anna Updyke. firmly believed her to be, 
by her gentle but. firm friendship. A word from the doctor, how- 
ever, induced her to resume her seat, and to await the result with a 
greater degree of patience. 

“ Mary Monson would seem to be a very prudent counselor,” re- 
joined Dunscomb. 

“ Yes; but she isn’t the great counselor from York— you be that 
gentleman, they tell me.” 

“ May 1 ask who told you anything about me?” 

“ Nancy Horton — and so did Mary Monson. Nancy said if I 
made so much noise, 1 should disturb the great counselor from 
York, and he might get me hanged for it 1 was only singing 
hymns, and they say it is good for folks in trouble to sing hymns. 
If you be the great counselor from York, I wish you would tell 
me one thing. Who got the gold that was in the stocking?” 

‘ ‘ Do yoiT happen to know anything of that stocking, or of the 
gold?” 

“ Do 1 — ” looking first over one shoulder, then over the other, 
but hesitating to proceed. “ Will ihey hang me, if 1 tell?” 

“ I should think not; though 1 can only give you an opinion. Do 
not answer, unless it be agreeable to you.” 

“ I want to tell — I want to tell all , but I’m afeard. 1 don’t want 
to be hanged.” 

“ Well, then, speak out boldly, and 1 will promise that you shall 
not be hanged. Who got the gold that was in the stocking?” 

“ Mary Monson. That’s the way she has got so much money.” 

“ 1 can not consent to leave Anna another instant in such com- 
pany!” exclaimed the anxious mother. “ Go, McBrain, and bring 
her hither at once.” 

“You are a littje premature,” coolly remarked Dunscomb. 
“This is but a person of weak mind; and too much importance 
should not be attached to his words. Let us hear what further be 
may have to say.” 

It was too late. The footstep of Mrs. Horton was heard in the 
passage; and the extraordinary being vanished as suddenly and as 
stealthily as he had entered. 

“ What can be made of this?” McBrain demanded, when a mo- 
ment had been taken to reflect. 

“ Nothing, Ned; I care not if Williams knew it all. The testi- 
mony of such a man can not be listened to for an instant. It is 
wrong in us to give it a second thought; though 1 perceive that you 
do. Half the mischief in the world is caused by misconceptions, 


230 


THE WATS OF THE HOUR. 


arising from a very numerous family of causes; one of which is a 
disposition to fancy a great deal from a little. Do you pronounce 
the man an idiot — or is he a madman?” 

He does not strike me as absolutely either. There is something 
peculiar in his case; and 1 shall ask permission to look into it. 1 
suppose we are done with the cards — shall 1 go for Anna?” 

The anxious mother gave a ready assent; and JVlcBrain went one 
way, while Dunscomb retired to his own room, not without stop- 
ping before his neighbor’s door, whom he heard muttering and 
menacing within. 

All this time the two little parlors mentioned were receiving, their 
company. The law is doubtless a very elevated profession, when 
its practice. is on a scale commensurate with its true objects. It be- 
comes a very different pursuit, .however, when its higher walks are 
abandoned, to choose a path amid its thickets and quagmires. Per- 
haps no human pursuit causes a wider range of character among its 
votaries, than the practice of this profession. In the first place, the 
difference, in an intellectual point of view, between the man who 
sees only precedents, and the man who sees the principles on which 
they aie founded , As as marked as the difference between black and 
white. To this great distinction in mind, is to be added another 
that opens a still wider chasm, the results of practice, and which 
depends on morals. While one set of lawyers turn to the higher 
objects of their calling, declining fees in cases of obviously ques- 
tionable right, and struggle to maintain their honesty in direct col- 
lision with the world and its temptations, another, and much the 
largest, falls readily into the practices of their craft— the word 
seems admirably suited to the subject— and live on, encumbered and 
endangered not only by their own natural . vices, but greatly dam- 
aged by those that in a manner they adopt, as it might be ex officio. 
This latter course is unfortunately that taisen by a vast number of 
the members of the bar all over the world, rendering them loose in 
their social morality, readj to lend themselves and their talents to 
the highest bidder, and causing them to he at first indifferent, and 
in the end blind, to the great features of right and wrong. These are 
the moralists who advance the doctrine that “ the advocate lias a 
right to act as his client would act;” while the class first named 
allow that “ the advocate has a right to do what his client has a 
right to do,” and no more. 

Perhaps there was not a single member of the profession present 
that night in the two little parlors of Mrs. Horton, who recognized 
the latter of these rules; or who did not, at need, practice on the 
former. As has been already said, these were the rowdies of the 
Dukes County bar. They chewed, smoked, drank, and played, 
each and all coarsely. To things that were innocent in themselves 
they gave the aspect of guilt by their own manners. The doors 
were kept locked; even amid their coarsest jokes, their ribaldry, their 
oaths', that were often revolting and painfully frequent, there was an 
tmeasy Watchfulness, as if they feared detection. There was noth- 
ing frank and manly in the deportment of these men. Chicanery, 
management, double-dealing, mixed up with the outbreakings of a 
coarse standard of manners, were visible in all they said or did, ex- 
cept, perhaps, at those moments when hypocris}" was paying its 


THE WAYS OF THE H0U5. 


231 


homage to virtue. This hypocrisy, however, had little, or at most 
a very indirect connection with anything religious. The offensive 
offstioots of the exaggerations that were so abounding among us 
half a century since, are giving place to hypocrisy of another school. 
The homage that was then paid to principles, however erroneous 
and forbidding, is now paid to the ballot-boxes. There was scarcely 
an individual around those card tables, at which the play was so 
obviously for the stakes as to render tho whole scene revolting, who 
would not have shrunk from having his amusements known. It 
would seem as it conscience consulted taste. Everything was 
coarse and offensive; the attitudes, oaths, conversation, liquors, and 
even the manner of drinking them. Apart from the dialogue, little 
was absolutely done that might not have been made to lose most of 
its repulsiveness, by adopting a higher school of manners; but of 
this theses scions of a noble stock knew no more than they did of 
the parent stem. 

It is scarcely necessary to say that both Williams and Timms 
were of this party. The relaxation was, in fact, in conformity with 
their tastes and practices ; and each of these excrescences of a rich 
and beneficent soil counted on the meetings in Mrs. Horton’s private 
rooms, as the more refined seek pleasure in the exercise of their 
tastes and habits. 

“ 1 say, Timms,” bawled out an attorney of the name of Crooks, 
“you play’d a trump, si.r — all right— go ahead — first rate— good 
play, that— ours dead. I say, Timms, you’re going to save Mary 
JVIonson’s heck. When I came here, I thought she was a case; but 
the prosecution is making out miserably.” 

** What do you say to that, Williams?” put in Crooks’s partner, 
who was smoking, playing, and drinking, with occasional 
* asides ’ of swearing, all, as might be, at the same time. “ 1 trump 
that, sir, by your leave — what do you say to that, Williams?” 

“ I say that this is not the court; and trying such a cause once 
ought to satisfy a reasonable man.” 

“He’s afraid of showing liis hand, which 1 am not,” put, in 
another, exposing his cards as he spoke. “ Williams always has 
some spare trumps, however, to get him out of all his difficulties.” 

‘‘Yes, Williams has a spare trump, and there it is, giving me the 
trick’,” answered the saucy lawyer, as coolly as it he had been en- 
gaged in an inferior slander- suit. “ I shall be at Timms pretty much 
by the same process to-morrow.” 

“ Then you will do more than you have done to-day, Master Will- 
iams. This Mrs. Jane Pope m&y be a trump, but she is not the 
ace. 1 never knew a witness break down more completely.” 

“ We’ll find the means to set her up again— 1 think that knave is 
yours, Green— yes, I now see my game, which is to take it with the 
queen— very much, Timms, as tve shall beat you to morrow. I 
keep my trump card always for the last play, you know.” 

“ Come, come, Williams,” pnt in the oldest member of the bar, a 
man whose passions were cooled by time, andwho had more gravity 
than most of his companions. “ Come, come, Williams, this is a 
trial for a life, and joking is a little out of place.” 

“ 1 believe there is no juror present, Mr Marvin, which is all the 
xeserve the law exacts. 


232 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


“ Although the law may to’erate this levity, feeling will not. The 
prisoner is a fine young woman; and for my part, though 1 wish to 
say nothing that may influence any one’s opinion, 1 have^heard 
nothing yet to justify an indictment, much less a conviction.” 

Williams laid down his cards, rose, stretched his arms, gaped, 
and taking Timms by the arm, he led the latter from the room. Not 
content with this, the wary limb of the law continued to move for- 
ward, until he and his companion were in the open air. 

“ It is always better to talk secrets outside than inside of a house, ” 
observed Williams, as soon as they were at a safe distance from the 
inn-door. “ It is not too late yet, Timm's— you must see how weak 
we are, and how bunglingly the District Attorney has led off. Half 
those jurors will sleep to-night with a feeling that Mary Monson has 
been hardly dealt by.” 

“ They may do the same to-morrow night; and every night in the 
month,” answered Timms. 

“Not unless the arrangement is made. We have testimony 
enough to hang the governor.” 

“ Show us your list of witnesses, then, that we may judge of this 
for ourselves.” 

” That would never do. They might be bought off for half the 
money that is necessary to take us out of the field. Five thousand 
dollars can be no great matter for such a woman and her friends.” 

‘ Whom do you suppose to be her friends, Williams? If you 
know them you are better informed than her own counsel.” 

“ Yes, and a pretty point that will make, when pressed against 
you. No, no, Timms; your client has been ill-advised, or she is 
unaccountably obstinate. She has friends, although you may not 
know who they are; and friends who can, and who would very 
promptly help her, if she would consent to ask their assistance. 
Indeed, i suspect sire has cash enough on hand to buy us off.” 

“ Five thousand dollars is a large sum, Williams, and is not often 
tn be found in Biberry jail. But, if Mary Monson has these 
friends, name. them, that we may apply for their assistance .’ i 

“ Harkee, Timms; you are not a man so ignorant of what is 
going on in the world, as to require to be told the letters of the 
alphabet. You know that there are extensive associations of rogues 
in this young country, as well as in most that are older.” 

11 What has that to do with Mary Monson and our case?” 

“ Everything. This Mary Monson has been sent here to get at 
the gold of the poor old dolt, who has not been able to conceal her 
treasure after it was hoarded. She made a sub-treasury of her 
stocking, and exhibited the coin, like any other sub-treasurer. 
Many persons like to look at it, just to feast their eyes.” 

“ More to finger it; and you are of the number, Williams!” 

“ 1 admit it. The weakness is general in the profession, 1 believe. 
But this is idle talk, and- we are losing very precious time. Will 
you, or will you not, apply again to your client for the money?” 

” Answer me candidly, a question or two, and I will do as you 
desire. You know, Williapis, that we are old friends, and never 
had any serious difficulty since we have been called to the bar.” 

‘‘ Oh, assuredly,” answered Williams, with an ironical smile, that 
it might have been fortunate for the negotiation the obscurity con- 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


233 

cealed from his companion; “ excellent friends from the beginning 
Timms, and likely to continue so, 1 trust, to the last. Men who 
know each other as well as you and 1 ought to be on the best of terms. 
For my part, I never harbored a wrangle at the bar in my mind five 
minutes after 1 left the court. Now for your question.” 

“ You surely do not set down Mary Monson as the stool-pi freon 
of a set of York thieves!” 

“ Who, or wbat else can she be, Mr. Timms? Better educated, 
and belonging to an 4 upper ten ’ in villainy, but of a company of 
rogues. Now, these knaves stand by each other much more faith- 
fully than the body of the citizens stand by the law; and the five 
thousand will be forthcoming for the asking.” 

44 Are you serious in wishing me to believe you think my client 
guilty?” 

Here Williams made no bones of laughing outright. It is true 
that he suppressed the noise immediately, lest it should attract at- 
tention; but laugh he did-, and wiili right good will. 

“ Come, Timms, you have asked your question, and 1 leave you 
to answer it yourself. One thing 1 will say, however, in the way 
of admonition, which is this— we shall make out such a case against 
her to-morrow as would hang a governor, as 1 have already told 
you.” 

”1 believe you’ve done your worst already — why not let ire 
know the names of your witnesses?” 

44 You know the reason. We wish the whole sum ourselves, and 
have no fancy to its being scattered all over Dukes. I give 
you my honor, Timms — and you know what that is — 1 give you 
my honor that we hold this testimony in reserve.” 

44 In which case the district attorney will bring the witnesses on 
the stand; and We shall gain nothing, after all, by your with- 
drawal.” 

44 The district attorney has left the case very much to me. 1 have 
prepared his brief, and have taken care to keep to myself enough to 
turn the scales. It I quit Mary Monson will be acquitted — if 1 stay 
she will be hanged. A pardon for her will be out of the question — 
she is too high among the 4 upper ten ’ to expect that— besides, she 
is not an anti-renter.” 

44 1 wonder the thieves do not combine, as well as other folks, 
and control votes!” 

44 They do — these anti-renters belong to the gangs, and have 
already got their representatives in high places. They are 4 land 
pirates,’ while your client goes for old stockings. The difference 
in principle is by no means important, as any clear-headed man 
may see. It is getting late, Timms.” 

444 1 can not believe that Mary Monson is the sort of person you 
take her tor! Williams, I’ve always looked upon you, and treated 
you, as a friend. You may remember how 1 stood by you in the 
Middlebury case?” 

44 Certainly — you did your duty by me in that matter, and I have 
not forgot it.” 

The cause alluded tq was an action for a 44 breach of promise,” 
which, at one time, threatened all of Williams’s 44 future useful- 
ness,” as it is termed; but which was put to sleep in the end by 


234 THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 

means of Timms’s dexterity in managing the “ outdoor ” points of a 
difficult case. 

“ Well, then, be my friend in this matter. 1 will be honest with 
you, and acknowledge that, as regards my client, 1 have had — that 
is provided she is acquitted, and her character comes out fair — that 
1 have had — and still have, for that matter — what—” 

“Are called ‘ulterior views.’ 1 understand you, Timms, and 
have suspected as much these ten days. A great deal depends on 
•what you consider a fair character. Taking the best view of her 
situation, Mary Monson will have beea tried for murder and arson.” 

“ Not it acquitted of the first. 1 have the district attorney’s 
promise to consent to a nolle prosequi on the last indictment, if we 
ti averse the first successfully. ” 

“In which case Mary Mon son will have been tried for murder 
only,” returned Williams, smiling. “ Do you really think, Timms, 
that your heart is soft enough to receive and retain an impression 
as deep as that made by the seal ot the court?” • 

“ If I thought, as you do, tnat my client is or has been connected 
with thieves, and burglars, and counterfeiters, 1 would not think of 
her for a moment as a wife. But there is a vast difference between 
a person overtaken by sudden temptation and one who sins on cal- 
culation, and by regular habit. Now. in my own case, I sometimes 
act wrong — yes, 1 admit as much as that — ” 

“It is quite unnecessary,” said Williams, dryly. 

. “It is not according to Christian doctrine to visit old offenses on 
a sinner’s head, when repentance has washed away the crime.” 

“ Which means, Timms, that you will marry Mary Monson, 
although she may be guilty; provided always that two very im- 
portant contingencies are favorably disposed of.” 

“ What contingencies do you allude to, Williams? I know of 
none.” 

“ One is, provided she will have you; the other is, provided she 
is not hanged.” 

“ As to the first, 1 have no great apprehension; women that have 
been once before a court, on a trial for a capital offense, are not 
very particular. On my side, it will be easy enough to persuade 
the public that, as counsel in a most interesting case, 1 became in- 
timately acquainted with her virtues, touched by her misiortunes, 
captivated by her beauty and accomplishments, and finally over- 
come by her charms. 1 don’t think, Williams, that such an ex- 
planation would fail of its effect, before a caucus even. Men are 
always favorably disposed to those they think worse off than they 
are themselves. A good deal of capilal is made on that principle.” 

“ 1 do not know that it would. Nowadays the elections generally 
turn more on public principles than on private conduct. The 
Americans are a mo9t forgiving people, unless you tell them the 
truth, lliat they will not pardon.” 

“ Nor any other nation, 1 fancy. Human natur’ revolts at it. 
But that ” — snapping his fingers—” for your elections; it is the cau- 
cuses that I Jay myself out to meet. Give me the nomination, and 
1 am as certain of my seat as, in the old countries, a first-born is to 
his father’s throne.” 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


335 

“ It is pretty safe, as a rule, 1 allow; but nominations sometimes 
fail.*’ 

“ Not when' tegular, and made on proper principles. A nomina- 
tion is almost as good as popularity.” 

‘‘Often better; for men are just asses enough to work in the 
collar of party, even when overloaded. But all this time the night 
is wearing away. If I go into court in the morning it will be too 
late. This thing must be settled at once, and that in.a very explicit 
manner.” 

‘‘ 1 wish I knew what you have picked up concerning Mary Mon- 
son’s early life!” said Timms, like a man struggling with doubt, 

‘‘ You have heard the rumor as well as myself. Some say she is 
a wife already; while others think her a rich widow. My opinion 
you know; I believe her to be the stool-pigeon of a York gang, and 
no better than she should be.” 

This was plain language to be addressed to a lover; and "Williams 
meant it to be so. He had that sort of regard for Timms which 
proceeds from a community in practices, and was disposed to regret 
that a man with whom he had been so long connected, either as an 
associate or an antagonist, should marry a woman of the pursuits 
that he firmly believed marked the career of Mary Monson. 

The gentlemen of the bar are no more to be judged by appear- 
ances than the rest of mankind. They will wrangle, and seem to 
be at sword’s points with each other, at one moment; when the 
next may find them pulling together in harmony in the next case 
on the calendar. It was under this sort of feeling that Williams 
had a species of friendship for his companion. 

”1 will try, Williams,” said the last, turning toward the jail. 
‘‘Yes, I will make one more trial.” 

‘‘Do, my good fellow— and, Timms— remember one thing; you 
can never marry a woman that has been hanged.” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

The time is precious; I’ll about it straight. 

Earl of Essex. 

The jail presented a very different scene. A solemn stillness 
reigned in its gallery; and even good Mrs. Gott had become weary 
with the excitement of the day, and had retired to rest. A single 
lamp was burning in the cell: and dark forms were dimly visible 
in the passage, without the direct influence of its rays. Two were 
seated, while a third paced the stone but carpeted pavement, 
with a slow and quiet step. The first were the shadowy forms of 
Anna TJpdyke and Marie Moulin; the last, that of Mary Monson. 
For half an hour the prisoner had been on her knees, praying for 
strength to endure a burden that surpassed her expectations; and, 
as is usual with those who look above for aid, more especially 
women, she was reaping the benefit of her petition. Not a syllable 
had she uttered, however, since quitting the cell. Her voice, soft, 
melodious, and lady-like, was now heard for the first time. 

“ My situation is most extraordinary, Anna,” she said ; “it proves 


236 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


almost too much for my strength! This has been a terrible day, 
calm as 1 may have appeared; and 1 fear that the morrow will be 
still harder to be borne. There is an expression about the eyes of 
that man, Williams, that both alarms and disgusts me. I am to 
expect in him a most fiery foe. ” 

“ Why, then, do you not escape from scenes for which you are 
so unsuited, and leave this saucy Williams to himself, and his 
schemes of plunder?” 

“ That would not do. Several sufficient reasons exist for remain- 
jug. Were 1 to avail myself of the use of the keys 1 possess, and 
quit the jail not to return, good Mrs. Gott and her husband would 
probably both be ruined. Although they are ignorant of- what 
money and ingenuity have done for me, it would be difficult to in- 
duce the world to believe them innocent. But a still higher reason 
for remaining is the vindication of my own character.” 

“ No one will think of confounding you with Mary Monson; and 
by going abroad/as you say it is your intention to do, you would 
effectually escape from even suspicion.” 

“ You little know the world, my dear. 1 see that all the useful 
lessons I gave you, as your school -mamma, are already forgotten. 
The six years between us in age have given me an experience that 
tells me to do nothing of the sort. .Nothing is so certain to follow 
us as a bad name; though the good one is easily enough forgotten. 
As Mary Monson, 1 am indicted for these grievous crimes; as Mary 
Monson will 1 be acquitted of them. 1 feel an affection for the 
character, and shall not degrade it by any act as base as that of 
flight.” 

“• Why not, then, resort to the other means you possess, and gain 
a speedy triumph in open couit?” 

As Anna put this question, Mary Monson came beneath the light 
and stopped. Her handsome face was in full view, and her friend 
saw an expression on it that gave her pain. It lasted only a moment: 
but that moment was long enough to induce Anna to wish she had 
not seen it. On several previous occasions this same expression had 
rendered her uneasy; but the evil look was soon forgotten in the 
quiet elegance of manners that borrowed charms from a counte- 
nance usually as soft as the evening sky in September. Ere she 
resumed her walk, Mary Monson shook her head in dissent from 
the proposition of her friend, and passed on, a shadowy but grace- 
ful form, a9 she went down the gallery. 

44 It would be premature,” she said, “ and 1 should fail of my ob- 
ject. 1 will not rob that excellent Mr. Dunscoinb of his honest tri- 
umph. How calm and gentlemanlike he was to-day; yet how firm 
and prompt, when it became necessary to show these qualities.” 

4 4 Uncle Tom is all that is good ; and we love him as we would love 
a parent.” 

A pause succeeded, during which Mary. Monson walked along the 
gallery once, in profound thought. 

44 Yours promises to be a happy future, my dear,” she said. “ Of 
suitable ages, tempers, stations, country — yes, country; for an 
American woman should never marry a foreigner!” 

Anna Updyke did not reply; and a silence succeeded that was in- 
terrupted by the rattling of a key in the outer door. 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 237 

/‘It is your new father, Anna, come to see you home. Thank you, 
kind-hearted and most generous-minded girl. I feel the sacrifices 
that you and }mur friend are making in my behalf, and shall carry 
the recollection of them to the grave. On her, 1 had no claims at 
all; and on you, but those that are very slight. You have been to 
me, indeed, most excellent friends, and a great support when both 
were most needed. Of my own sex, and of the same social level, 1 
do not now see how 1 should have got on without you. Mrs. Gott 
is kindness and good-nature themselves; but she is so different 
from us m a thousand things, that 1 have often been pained by it. 
In our intercourse with you, how different! Knowing so 'much, 
you pry into nothing. Not h question, not a look to embarrass me; 
and with a perfect and saint-like reliance on my innocence, were 1 
a sister, your support could not be more warm-hearted or firm.” 

After a short pause, in which this singular young woman smiled, 
and appeared to be talking to herself, she continued, after kissing 
her companion most affectionately for good-night, and walking with 
her as far as the door of the gallery, where it had been announced 
lhat the doctor was waiting for his step-daughter: 

“ 1 wish 1 knew whether the same faith goes through the connec- 
tion — Mr. John Wilmeter?” 

” Oh! He is persuaded of your entire innocence. It was he who 
excited so much interest in me, on your behalf, before 1 had the 
least idea of our having ever met before.” 

“ He is a noble-hearted young man, and has many excellent 
qualities— a little romantic, but none the worse for that, my dear, 
as you will find in the end. Alas! alas! Those marriages that are 
made over a rent-roll, or an inventory, need a great deal of some- 
thing very different from what they possess, to render them happy! 
Mr. Wilmeter has told me that no evidence could make him believe 
in my guilt. There is a confidence that might touch a woman’s 
heart/ Anna, did circumstances admit of such a thing. I like that 
Michael MilMngton, too; the name is dear to me, as is the race of 
which he comes. No matter; the world va son train, let us regret 
and repine as we may. And Uncle Tom, Anna — what do you think 
of his real opinion? Is it in my favor or not ?” 

Anna Updyke had detected in Dunscomb a disposition to doubt, 
and was naturally averse to communicating a fact so unpleasant to 
her friend. Kissing the latter affectionately, she hurried away to 
meet McBrain, already waiting for her without. In quitting the 
dwelling of the building annexed to the jail, the doctor and Anna 
met Timms hurrying forward to seek an interview with his client 
before she retired to rest. An application, at once obtained permis- 
sion for the limb of the,law to enter. 

. “ I have come, Miss Mary,” a§ Timms now called his client, ‘“on 
what 1 fear will prove a useless errand; but which I have thought 
it my duty to see performed, as your best friend, and one of your 
legal advisers. You have already heard what 1 had lo say on the 
subject of a certain proposal of the next of kin to withdraw from 
the prosecution, Which will carry with him this "Williams, with 
whom 1 should think you would, by this time, be heartily dis- 
gusted. 1 come now to say that this offer is repeated with a good 
deal of emphasis, and that you have still an opportunity of lessen- 


238 THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 

. , / ' 
in# the force that is pressing on your interests, by at least one-half. 
Williams may well count tor more than half of the vigor and 
shrewdness of what is doing for the State in your case.” 

“ The proposal must be more distinctly made, and you must let 
me have a clear view at what is expected from me, Mr. Timms, 
before I can give any reply,” said Mary Monson. t* But you may 
wish to be alone with roe before you are moie explicit. 1 will older 
-my woman to go into the cell.” 

‘‘It might be more prudent were we to go into the cell ourselves, 
and leave your domestic outside. These galleries carry sounds like, 
ear-trumpets; and we never know who may be our next neighbor 
in a jail.” 

Mary Monson quietly assented to the proposal, calling to her 
woman in French to remain outside, in the dark, while she profited 
by the light of the lamp in the cell. Timms followed, and closed 
the door. 

In size, form, and materials, the cell of Mary Monson was nec- 
essarily like that of every other inmate of ihe jail. Its sides, top 
and bottom, were of massive stones; the two last being flags of great 
dimensions. But taste and money had converted even this place 
into an apartment that was comfortable in all respects but that of 
size. Two cells opening on the section of gallery that the consider- 
ation of Mrs. Gott had caused to bq screened oft, and appropriated 
to the exclusive use of the fair prisoner, one had been furnished as 
a sleeping apartment, while that in which Timms was now received 
had more the air of a sort of boudoir . It was well carpeted, like all 
the rest of what might be termed the suite; and had a variety of 
those little elegancies that women of cultivated tastes and ample 
means are almost certain to gather about them. The harp which 
had occasioned so much scandal, as well as a guitar, stood near by, 
and chairs, of dfferent forms and various degrees of comfort, 
crowded the room, perhaps to superfluity. As this was the first 
time Timms had been admitted to the ceil, he w r as all eyes, gazing 
about him at the numerous signs of wealth it contained, with in- 
ward satisfaction. It was a minute after he was desired to be seated 
before he could comply, so lively was the curiosity to be appeased. 
It was during this minute that Marie Moulin lighted four candles, 
that were already arranged in bronzed candlesticks, making a blaze 
of light for that small room. These candles were of spermaceti, 
the ordinary American substitute for wax. Nothing that he then 
saw, or had ever seen in his intercourse with his client, so profound- 
ly impressed Timms as this luxury of light. Accustomed himself 
to read and write by a couple of small inferior articles in tallow, 
when he did not use a lamp, there seemed td be something regal to 
his unsophisticated imagination, in this display of brilliancy. 

Whether Mary Monson had a purpose fo answer in giving Timms 
so unusual a reception, we shall leave the reader to discover by 
means of his own sagacity; but circumstances might well lead one 
to the conclusion that she had. There was a satisfied look, as she 
glanced around the cell and surveyed its arrangements, that possibly 
led fairly enough to such an inference. Nevertheless, her demeanor 
was perfectly quiet, betraying none of the fidgeting uneasiness of 
an underbred person, lest all might not be right. Every arrange- 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


239 


xnent was left to the servant; and when Marie Moulin finally quitted 
the cell and closed the door behind her, every thought of the apart- 
ment and what it contained seemed to vanish fromllie mind of her 
extraordinary mistress. • 

“ Before you proceed to communicate the purpose of your visit, 
Mr. Timms,” Mary Monson said, “ I shall ask permission to put a 
few questions of my own, touching the state of oui cause. Have 
we gained or lost by this day’s pioceedings?” 

“ Most clearly gained, as every man at the bar will confirm by his 
opinion.” 

“ That has been my own way of thinking; and 1 am glad to hear 
it corroborated by such competent judges. 1 confess the prosecu- 
tion does not seem to me to show the strength it really possesses. 
/This Jane Pope made a miserable blunder about the piece of coin.” 

“ She has done the other side no great good,' certainly.” 

“ How stands the jury, Mr. Timms?” 

Although this question was put so directly, Timms heard it with 
uneasiness. Nor did he like the expression of Mary Monson’s eyes, 
which seemed to regard him with a keenness that might possibly 
imply distrust. But it was necessary to answer; though he did so 
with caution, and with a due regard to his ow T n safety. 

“ It is pretty well,” he said, “ though not quite as much op- 
posed to capital punishment as I had hoped for. We challenged 
-off one of the sharpest chaps in the county, and have got in his 
place a man who is pretty much under my thumb.” 

“ And the stories— the reports — have they been well circulated?” 

“ A little too well, I’m afraid. That concerning your having 
married a Frenchman, and having run away from him, has gone 
through all the lower towns of Dukes like wild-fire. It has even 
reached the ears of Squire Dunscomb, and will be in the York 
papers to-morrow.” 

A little start betrayed the surprise of the prisoner ; and a look ac- 
companied it which would seem to denote dissatisfaction that a 
tale put in circulation by herself, as it would now appear, had gone 
quite so far. 

‘‘Mr. Dunscomb!” she repeated, musingly. “Anna Updyke’s 
Uncle Tom; and one whom such a story may very well set thinking. 
I wish it had not reached him, of all men, Mr. Timms.” 

“ If 1 may judge of his opinions by some little acts and expres- 
sions that have escaped him, I am inclined to think he believes the 
story to be, in the main, true.” • 

Mary Monson smiled; and, as was much her wont when thinking 
intensely, her lips moved; even a low muttering became audible 
to a person as near as her companion then was. 

“ It is now time, Mr. Timms, to set the other story in motion,” 
she said, quickly. “ Let one account follow the other; that will 
distract people’s belief. We must be active in this matter.” 

“ There is less necessity for our moving in the affair, as Williams 
has got a clew to it, by some means or other; and his men will 
.spread it far and near, long before the cause goes to the jury.” 

“That is fortunate!” exclaimed the prisoner, actually clapping 
lier pretty gloved hands together in delight. “ A story as terrible 


240 


THE WAYS 0F THE flOUK. • . 

as that must react powerfully, when its falsehood comes to be shown.. 
1 regard that tale as the cleverest of all our schemes, Mr. Timms.” 

“ "Why — yes— that is— 1 think. Miss Mary, it may be set down, as 
the boldest.” 

“ And this saucy Williams, as you call him, has got hold Of it al- 
ready, and believes it true?” 

“ It is not surprising; there are so many small and probable facts 
accompanying it.” 

“ 1 suppose you know what Shakespeare calls such an invention, 
Mr. Timms?” said Mary Monson, smiling. 

“ I am not particularly acquainted with that author, ma’am, I 
know there was such a writer, and that he was thought a good deal 
of, in his day; but 1 can’t say 1 have ever read him.” 

The beautiful prisoner turned her large expressive blue eyes o» 
her companion with a gaze of wonder; but her breeding prevented 
her from uttering what she certainly thought and felt. 

“ Shakespeare is a writer very generally esteemed. ” she answered, 
after one moment of muttering, and one moment to control herself; 
“ 1 believe he is commonly placed at the head of our English litera- 
ture, if not at the head of that of all times and nations— Homer, 
perhaps, excepted.” 

“ What! higher, do yon think, Miss Mary, than Black'stone and 
Kent?” 

“Those are authors of whom 1 know nothing, Mr. Timms; but 
now, sir, 1 will listen to your errand here to-nignt. ” 

“ It is the old matter. Williams has been talking to me again, 
touching the five thousand dollars.” 

“Mr. Williams has my answer. If five thousand cents would 
buy him oft, he should not receive thepi from me.” 

This was said with a frown; and then it was that the observer had 
an opportunity of tracing, in a face otherwise so lovely, the lines that 
indicate self-will, and a spirit not easily controlled. Alas! that 
women should ever so mistake their natural means to influence and 
guide, as to have recourse to the exercise of agents that they rarely 
wield with effect; and ever with a sacrifice of womanly character 
and womanly grace. The person who would draw the sex from the 
quiet scenes that they so much embellish, to mingle in the strifes of 
the world; who would place them in stations that nature has ob- 
viously intended men should occupy, is> not their real friend, any 
more .than the weak adviser who resorts to reputed specifics when 
the knife alone can effect a cure. The Creator intended woman for 
a “ lielp-meet,” and not for the head of the family circle; and most 
fatally ill-judging are the laws that would fain disturb the order of 
a domestic government, which is directly derived from divine 
wisdom as from divine benevolence. 

“ I told him as much, Miss Mary,” answered Timms; “ but he 
does not seem disposed to take ‘ no ’ for an answer. Williams has 
the true scent *f or a dollar.” 

“Iam quite certain of an acquittal, Mr. Timms; and having en- 
dured so much, aud hazarded so much, 1 do not like to throw away 
the triumph of my approaching victory. There is a powerful ex- 
citement in my situation; and 1 like excitement to weakness, per- 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 241 

haps. No, no; my success must not be tarnished by any such 
covert bargain. 1 will not listen to the proposal for an instant!” 

“ 1 understand that the raising of the sum required would form 
no particular obstacle to the arrangement?” asked Timms, in a care- 
less sort of way that was intended to conceal the real interest he 
took in the reply. • ' 

“ None at all. The money might be in his hands before the court 
sits in the morning; but it never shall be, as coming from me. Let 
Mr. Williams know this definitely; and tell him to do his worst.” 

Timms was a little surprised, and a good deal Uneasy at this mani- 
festation of a spirit of defiance, which could produce no good, 
and which might be productive of evil. While he was delighted to 
hear, for the fourth or fifth time, how easy it .would be for hiS fair 
client to command a sum as large as that demanded, ,he Secretly de- 
termined not to let the man who had sent him on his 'present errand 
know the temper in which it had been received. Williams w r as 
sufficiently dangerous as it was; and he saw all the hazard of giving 
him fresh incentives to increase his exertions. 

“ And now, as this matter is finally disposed of, Mr. Timms^for 
1 desire that it may not be again mentioned to me ” — resumed the 
accused, “ let us say a word more on the subject of our new report. 
Your agent has set on toot a story that 1 belong to a gang of 
wretches who are combined to prey on society; and that", in this 
character, I came into Dukes, to carry out one of its nefarious 
schemes?” 

“ That is the substance of the rumor we have started at your own 
desire;- though I could wish it were not quite so strong, and that 
there were more time for the reaction.” 

The strength of the rumor is its great merit; and, as for time, 
we have abundance for our purposes. Reaction is the great power 
of popularity, as 1 have heard, again and again. It is always the 
most effective, too, at the turn of the tide. Let the public once g;et 
possesesd with the notion that a rumor so injurious has been in cir- 
culation at the expense of one in my cruel condition, and the cur- 
rent of feeling will set the other way in a torrent that nothing can 
arrest!” 

“ 1 take the idea, Miss Mary, which is well enough for certain 
cases, but a little too hazardous for this. Suppose it should be 
ascertained that this report came from us?” 

“ It never can be, if the caution 1 directed was observed. You 
have not neglected my advice, Mr. Timms?” 

The attorney had not; and great had been his surprise at the in- 
genuity and finesse manifested by this singular woman, in setting 
afloat a report that would certainly act to her injury, unless arrested 
and disproved at a moment most critical in her future fate. Never- 
theless, in obedience to Mary Monson’s positive commands, this very 
bold measure had been undertaken; and Timms was waiting with 
impatience for the information by means of which lie was to coun- 
teract these self-inflicted injuries, and make them the instruments 
of good, on the reaction. 

If that portion of society which takes delight in gossip could be 
made to understand the real characters of those to whom they com- 
mit the control of their opinions, not to say principles, there would 


242 THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 

be far more of reserve and self-respect * observed in the submission 
to this social evil, than there is at present. Malice, the inward im- 
pulses of the propagators of a lie, and cupidity, are at the bottom 
of half the tales that reach our ears; and in those cases in which the 
world in its ignorance fancies it has some authority for what it says, 
it as often happens that some hidden motive is at the bottom of 
the exhibition as the one which seems so apparent. There are a set 
of vulgar vices that may be termed the “ stereotyped,” they lie so 
near the surface of human infirmities. They who are most subject 
to their influence always drag these vices first into the arena of talk; 
and fully one half of that of this nature which we hear, has its 
origin as much in the reflective nature of the gossip’s own character, 
as in any facts truly connected with the acts of the subjects of his 
or her stories. 

But Mary Monson was taking a far higher flight than the circu- 
lation of an injurious rumor. She believed herself to he putting on 
foot a master-stroke of policy. In her intercourse with Timms, so 
much was said of the power of opinion, that she had passed. hours, 
nay days, in the study of the means to control and counteract it. 
Whence she obtained her notion of the virtue of reaction it might 
not be easy to say; hut her theory was not without its tiuth; and it 
is certain that her means of producing it were of remarkable sim- 
plicity and ingenuity. 

Having settled the two preliminiaries of the rumor and of 
Williams’s proposition, Timms thought the moment favorable to 
making a demonstration in his own affairs. Love he did not yet 
dare to propose openly; though he had now been, for some time, 
making covert demonstrations toward the tender passion. In addi- 
tion to the motive of cupidity, one of great influence with such a 
man, Timms’s heart, such as it was, had really yielded to the influ- 
ence of a beauty, manners, accomplishments, and information, all 
of a class so much higher than he had been accustomed to meet 
with, as to be subjects of wonder with him, not to say of adoration. 
This man had his affections as well as another; and. while John 
Wilmeter had submitted to a merely passing inclination, as much 
produced by the interest he took in an unknown female’s situation 
as- by any other cause, poor Timms had been hourly falling more 
i and more in love. It is a tribute to nature that this passion can 
be, and is, felt by all. Although a purifying sentiment, the corrupt 
and impure can feel its power, and, in a greater or less degree, 
.submit to its influence, though their homage may be tainted by the 
grosser elements that are so largely mixed up with the compound of 
their characters. W e may have occasion to show hereafter how far 
the uncouth attorney of Mary Monson succeeded in his suit with 
bis fair client. 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


243 


CHAPTER XXY. 

I challenge envy, 

Malice, and all the practices of hell, 

To censure all the actions of my past 
Unhappy life, and taint me if they can. 

The Oi'phan. 

It is to be presumed that Timms found the means to communi- 
cate to •'Williams tlj£ rejection of the latter’s ’offer, before the court 
met next morning. It is certain that the counsel associated with 
the attorney-general manifested unusual zeal in the performance 
of duties that" most men would have found unpleasant, if not pain- 
ful, and that he was captious, short, and ill-natured. Just as Mary 
Monsou came within the bar, a letter was put into the hands of 
Dunscomb, who' quietly broke the seal, and read it twice, as the 
observant Timms fancied; then put it in his pocket, with a mien so 
undisturbed that -no mere looker-on would have suspected its im- 
portance. The letter was from Millingtoo, and it announced a 
general want of success in bis mission. The whereabouts of M. de 
Larocheforte could not be ascertained; and those who knew any- 
thing about his movements were of opinion that he was traveling 
in the West, accompanied by his fair, accomplished, and affluent 
young consort. None of those who would naturally have heard of 
such an event, had it occurred, could say there had ever been a 
separation- between the French husband and the American wife. Mil- 
lington, himself, had never seen his kinswoman, there being a coolness 
of Tong standing between the two branches of the family, and could 
give little or no information on the subject In a word, he could 
discover nothing to enable him to carry out the clew obtained in 
the rumor; while, on the other hand, he found a certain set, who 
occupied themselves a good deal with intelligence of that sort, were 
greatly disposed to believe the report, set on foot by herself, that 
Mary Monson was a stool-pigeon of a gang of marauders, and doubt- 
less guilty of everything of which she had been accused. Milling- 
ton would remain in town, how’ever, another day, and endeavor to 
push his inquiries to some useful result. Cool, clear-headed, and 
lotally without romance, Dunscomb knew that a better agent than 
his young friend could not be employed, and was fain to wait 
patiently for the discoveries he might eventually succeed in making. 
In the meantime the trial proceeded. 

“ Mr. Clerk,” said his honor, ” let the jury be called.” 

This was done, and Mary Monson ’s lips moved, while a lurking 
smile lighted her countenance, as her eyes met the sympathy that 
was expressed in the countenances of several of the grave men who 
had been drawn as arbiters, fn her case, between life and death. To 
her it was apparent that her sex, her youth, perhaps her air and 
beauty, stood her friends, and that she might largely count on the 
compassion of that small buf important body of men. One of her 
calculations had succeeded to the letler. The tale of her being a 
stool pigeon had been very actively circulated, with certain addi- 


244 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


tions and embellishments that it was very easy to disprove; and an- 
other set of agenls had been hard at work, all the morning, in brush- 
ing away such of the collateral circumstances as had, at first, been 
produced to confirm the main story, and which, in now being pulled 
to pieces as of no account, did not tail to cast a shade ot the darkest 
doubt over the whole rumor. All this Mary Monson probably under- 
stood, and understanding, enjoyed; a vein of wild willfulness cer- 
tainly running through her character, leading in more directions 
than one. ' - 

“ 1 hope there will be no delay on account of witnesses,” ob- 
served the judge. “ Time is very precious.” 

“ We are armed at all points, your honor, and intend to bring the 
matter to an early conclusion,” answered Wulliahis, casting one of 
those glance-; at the prisoner which had obtained for him the mer- 
ited sobriquet of “ saucy.” “ Crier, call Samuel Burton.” 

Timms fairly started. This was breaking ground in a new spot, 
and was producing testimony from a source that he much dreaded. 
The Burtons had been the nearest neighbors of the Goodwins, and 
were so nearly on a social level with them, as to live in close and 
constant communication. These Burtons consisted of the man, his 
wife, and three maiden sisters. At one time, the last had conversed 
much on the subject of the murders; but, to Tinims’s great discon- 
tent, they had been quite dumb of late. This had prevented his 
putting in practice a method ot anticipating testimony, that is much 
in vogue, and which he had deliberately attempted with these some- 
time voluble females. As thereafter may not be fully initiated in 
the mysteries of that sacred and all-important master of the social 
relations, the law, we shall set forth the manner in which justice is 
often bolstered, wlien its interests are cared for by practitioners of 
the l imms’ and Williams’ school. 

No sooner is it ascertained that a particular individual has a 
knowledge of an awkward fact, than these worthies of the bar set 
to work to extract the dangerous information from him. This is 
commonly attempted, and often effected, by inducing the witness to 
relate what he knows, and by leading him on to make statements 
that, on being sworn to in court, will either altogether invalidate 
his testimony, or throw so much doubt on it as to leave it of very 
little value. As the agents employed to attain this end are not very 
scrupulous, there is great danger that their imaginations may sup- 
ply the defects in the statements, and substitute words and thoughts 
that the party never uttered. It is so easy to mistake another’s 
meaning, with even the best intentions, that we are not to be sur- 
prised if this should seriously happen when the 'disposition is to mis- 
lead. With the parties to suits, this artifice is often quite success- 
ful, admissions being obtained, or supposed to be obtained, that they 
never, for an instant, intended to make. In the States where spec- 
ulation has cornered men, and left them loaded with debt, these de- 
vices of the eaves- droppers and suckers are so common, as to render 
their testimony no immaterial feature in nearly every cause ot mag- 
nitude that is tried. In such a state of society it is, indeed, unsafe 
for a suitor to open his lips on his affairs, lest some one near him be 
employed to catch up bis words, and carry them into court with 
shades of meaning gathered from his own imagination. 


THE WATS OF THE HOUR. 245 

At first, Timms was under the impression that the Burtons were 
going to sustain the defense, and he was placing himself on the most 
amiable footing with the females, three of whom might veiv reason- 
ably be placed within the category of matrimony with this rising 
lawyer; but it was not long ere he ascertained that Williams was 
getting to be intimate, and had proved to be a successful rival. 
Davis, the nephew and heir of the Goodwins, was a single man, too, 
and it is probable that his frequent visits to the dwelling of the 
i Burtons had a beneficial influence on his own interests. Let the 
cause be what it might, the effect was clearly to seal the lips of the 
whole family, not a member of which could be induced, by any art 
practiced by the agents of Timms, to utter a syllable on a subject 
that now really seemed to be forbidden. When, therefore. Burton 
appeared on the stand, and was sworn, the two counsel for the de- 
fense waited for him to open his lips, with a profound and common 
interest. 

Burton knew the deceased, had lived all his life near them, was 
at home the night of the fire, went to assist' the old people, saw the 
two skeletons, had no doubt they were the remains of Peter Good- 
win and his wife; observed the effects of a heavy blow across the 
foreheads of each, the same that was still to be seen; inferred that 
this blow had destroyed them, or so lar stunned them as to leave 
them incapable of escaping from the fire. 

This witness was tlieh questioned on the subject of the stocking, 
and ]\frs. Goodwin’s hoard of money. He had seen the stocking 
but once, had often heard it mentioned by his sisters; did not think 
his wife had ever alluded to it; did not know the amount of gold, 
but supposed it might be very considerable; saw the bureau exam- 
ined, and knew that the stocking could not be found. In a word, 
his testimony in chief went generally to sustain the impression that 
prevailed relative to the murders, though it is unnecessary to repeat 
it in this form, as the cross-examination will better explain his state- 
ments and opinions. 

“Air. Burton,” said Dunscomb, “ you knew the Goodwins well?” 

“ Yery well, sir. As well as near neighbors generally know each 
other. ” 

“ Can you swear that these are the skeletons of Peter and Dorothy 
Goodwin?” 

I can swear that 1 believe them to be such— have no doubt of 
the fact.” / 

“ point out that which you suppose to be the skeleton of Peter 
Goodwin.” 

This request embarrassed the witness. In common with all 
around him, he had no other clew to his facts than the circumstances 
under which these vestiges )f mortality had been found, and he did 
not know what ought to be his reply. 

“ 1 suppose the shortest of the skeletons to be Peter Goodwin’s, 
and the longest that of his wife,” he at length answered. “ Peter 
was not as tall as Dorothy.” 

“ Which is the shortest of these remains?” 

“ That 1 could not say, without measuring. I know that Good- 
win was not as tall as his wife by halt an inch, for 1 have seen them 
measured.” 


246 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUK. 


“ Then yc u would say that, in your opinion, the longest of these 
two skeletons is that of Dorothy Goodwin, ana the shortest that of 
her husband?” . 

“Yes, sir; that is my opinion — formed to the best of my knowl- 
edge. 1 have seen them measured.” 

“ Was this measurement accurate?” 

“ Very much so. They used to dispute about their height, and 
they measured several times, when 1 was by; generally in their 
stocking feet, and once barefoot.” 

“ The difference being half an inch in favor of the wife?” 

“Yes, sir, as near as could be; for 1 was umpire more than once. ” 

“ Did Peter G<jodwin and his wife live happily together?” 

“ Tolerable— much as other mairied folks get along.'.’ 

“ Explain what you mean by that.” 

“ Why, there’s ups and downs, I suppose, in all families. Dor- 
othy was high tempered, and Peter was sometimes cross-grained.” 

“ Do you mean that they quarreled?” 

“ They got r’iled with each other, now and then.” 

“ Was Peter Goodwin a sober man?” 

The witness now appeared to be bothered. He looked around 
him, and meeting everywhere with countenances which evidently 
reflected “yes,” he had not the moral courage to run counter to 
public opinion, and say “no.” It is amazing what a tyrant this 
concentration of minds gets 1o be over those who are not very clear- 
headed themselves, and who are not constituted, morally, to resist 
its influence. It almost possesses a power to persuade these persons 
not to put faith in their ow n senses, and disposes them to believe 
what they hear, rather than what they have seen. Indeed, one effect 
is to cause them to see with the eyes of others. As the “ neigh- 
bors,” those inquisitors who know so much of persons of their as- 
sociation and intimacy, and so little of all others, very generally 
fancied Peter a sober man, Burton scarce knew what to answer. 
Circumstances had made him acquainted with the delinquency of 
the old man, but his allegations would not be sustained were he to 
speak the whole truth, since Peter had succeeded in keeping his in- 
firmity from being generally known. To a man like the witness, it 
was easier to sacrifice the truth than to face a neighborhood. 

“ 1 suppose he was much as others,” answered Burton, after a 
delay that caused some surprise. “ He w T as human, and had a hu- 
man natur’. Independence days, and other rejoicings, I’ve known 
him give in more than the temperance people think is quite right; 
but 1 shouldn’t say he was downright intemperate.” 

“ He drank to excess, then, on occasions?” 

“ Peter had a very weak head, which was his greatest difficulty.” 

“ Did you ever count the money in Mrs. Goodwin’s stocking?” 

“ I never did. There was gold and paper; but how much I do 
not know.” 

“ Did you see any strangers in or about the house of the Good- 
wins, the morning of the fire?” 

“ Yes; two strange men were there, and were active in helping 
the prisoner out of the window, and afterward in getting out the 
furniture. They were very particular in saving Mary Monson’s 
property.” 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


247 


' ' Were those strangers near the bureau?” 

“ Not that 1 know. 1 helped carry the bureau out myself'; and 1 
'was present afterward in court when it was examined for the money. 
We found none.” 

“ What became of those strangers?” 

“ 1 cannot tell you. They were lost to me in the confusion.” 

“ Had you ever seen them before?” 

“Never.” 

“Nor since?” 

“ No. sir.” 

“ Will you have the goodness to take that rod, and tell me what 
is the difference in length between the two skeletons?” 

“ 1 trust, your houor, that this is testimony which will not be re- 
ceived,” put in Williams. “ The fact is before the jury, and they 
can take cognizance of it for themselves.” 

Dunscomb smiled' as he answered — 

“ The zeal of the learned gentleman runs ahead of his knowledge 
of the rules of evidence. Does he expect a jury to measure the re- 
mains; or are we to show the facl by means of witnesses?” 

“ This is a cross-examination; and the question is one in chief. 
The witness belongs to the defense, if the question is to be put at 
all.” 

“1 think not, your honor. The witness has testified, in chief, 
that he believes these remains to be those of Peter and Dorothy 
Goodwin; he has further said, on his cross-examination, that Doro- 
thy was half an inch taller than Peter; we now wish to put to the 
test the accuracy of the first opinion, by comparing the two facts — 
his knowledge of the difference by the former measurement as com- 
pared with the present. It has been said that these two skeletons 
are very nearly of a length. We wish the truth to be seen.” 

“ The witness will answer tiie question,” said the judge. 

“ 1 doubt the power of the court to compel a witness to obtain 
facts in this irregular mode,” observed the pertinacious Williams. 

“ You can note your exceptions, brother Williams.” returned the 
judge, smiling; “although it is not easy to see with what useful 
consequences. If the prisoner be acquitted, you can hardly expect 
to try her again; and, if convicted, tbe prosecution will scarcely 
wish to press any objection. ” 

Williams, who was as much influenced by a bull- dog tenacity as 
by any other motive, now submitted; and Burton took the rod and 
measured the skeletons, an office he might have declined, most prob- 
ably, had he seen fit. The spectators observed surprise in his 
countenance; and he was seen to repeat the measurement, seemingly 
with more care. 

*“ Well, sir, what is the difference in the length of those skele- 
tons?” inquired Dunscomb. 

“ 1 make it about an inch and a half, if these marks are to be re- 
lied on,” was the slow, cautious, well-considered reply. 

* ‘ Do you now say that you believe these skeletons to be the re- 
mains of. Peter and Dorothy Goodwin?” 

“ Whose else can they be? They were found on the spot where 
the old couple used to sleep.” 

“ 1 ask you to answer my question; I am not here to answer 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


248 

yours. Do you still say that you believe these to be the skeletons 
of Peter and Dorothy Goodwin?” . 

“ 1 am a good deal nonplussed by this measurement— though the 
flesh, and skin, aud muscles, may have made a consideiable differ- 
ence in life.” 

“ Certainty,” said Williams, with one of his withering sneers— 
sneers that had carried many a cause purely b} r their impudence and 
sarcasm--” Every one knows how much more muscle a man has 
than a woman. It causes the great difference in their strength. A 
bunch of muscles, more or less, in the heel, would explain all this, 
and a great deal more.” 

“ How many persons dwelt in the house of Goodwin at the tim& 
of the fire?” demanded Duhscomb. 

“ They tell me Mary Monson was there, and 1 saw her there dur- 
ing the fire; but 1 never saw her there before.” 

” Do you know of any other inmate besides the old couple and 
the prisoner?” 

“ 1 did see a strange woman about the house for a week or two 
before the fire, but 1 never spoke to her. They tell me she was 
High Dutch.” 

“ Never mind what they tell you, Mr. Burton” — observed the 
judge — ” testify only to what you know.” 

“Did you see this strange woman at the fire, or after the fire?” 
continued Dunscomb. 

” 1 can’t say that 1 did. 1 remember to have looked round for 
her, too; but 1 did not find her.” 

” Wa3 her absence spoken of in the crowd at the time?” 

” Something was said about it; but we were too much taken up 
with the old couple to think a great deal of this stranger.” 

This is an outline ‘of Burton's testimony; though the cross-exam- 
ination was continued for more than an hour, and Williams had 
him again examined in chief. That intrepid practitioner contended 
that the defense had made Burton its own witness in all that related 
to the measurement of the skeletons; and that he had a right to a 
cross-examination. After all this contest, the only fact of any 
moment elicited from the witness related to the difference in stature 
between Goodwin and his wife, as has been stated already. 

In the meantime, Timms ascertained that the last report set on 
foot by his own agents, at the suggestion of Mary Monson herself, 
was circulating freely; and, though it was directly opposed to the 
preceding rumor, which had found gieat favor with tiie gossips, 
this extravagant tale was most greedily swallowed. We conceive 
that those persons who are so constituted, morally, as to find pleas- 
ure in listening to the idle rumors that float about society., are objects 
of pity; their morbid desire to talk of the affairs of others being a 
disease that presses them down beneath the level they. might other- 
wise occupy. With such persons, ihe probabilities go for nothing; 
and they are more inclined to give credit to a report that excites 
their interest, by running counter to all the known laws of human 
actions, than to give faith to its contradiction, when sustained by 
every reason that experience sustains. Thus was it on the present 
occasion. There was something so audacious in the rumor that 
Mary Monson belonged to a gang of rogues in town, and had been 


THE WAYS OF THE HOPE. 249 

sent especially to rob the Goodwins, that vulgar curiosity found 
great delight in it; the individual who heard the report usually send- 
ing it on with additions of his own, that had their authority purely 
in the workings of a dull imagination. It is .in that way that this 
great faculty of. the mind is made to perform a double duty; which 
in the one case is as pure and ennobling, as in the other it is debas- 
ing and ignoble. The man of a rich imagination, he who is capable 
of throwing the charms of poetical feeling around the world in 
which we dwell, is commonly a man of truth. The high faculty 
which he possesses seems, in such cases, to be employed in ferreting 
out, facts which, on proper occasions, he produces distinctly, man- 
fully, and logically. On the other hand, there is a species of 
subordinate imagination that is utterly incapable of embellishing 
life with charms of any sort, and which delights in the false. This 
last is the imagination of the gossip. It obtains some modicum of 
fact, mixes it with large quantities of stupid fiction, delights in the 
idol it has thus fashioned out of its own head, and sends it abroad 
to find worshipers as dull, as vulgar-minded, and as uncharitable, 
as itself. 

Timms grew frightened at the success of his client’s scheme, and 
felt the necessity of commencing the reaction at, once, it the last 
were to have time in which to produce its effect. He had been 
warmly opposed to the project in the commencement, and had stren 
uously resisted its adoption; but Mary Monson would not listen to 
his objections. She even threatened to employ another, should he 
fail her. The conceit seemed to have laken a strong bold on her 
fancy; and all the willfulness of her character had come in aid of 
this strange scheme. The thing was done; and it, now remained to 
prevent its effecting the mischief it. was so well adapted to produce. 

All this time, the fair prisoner sat in perfectly composed silence, 
listening attentively to everything that, was said, and occasional!}" 
taking a note. Timms ventured to suggest that it might be better 
were she to abstain from doing the last, as it gave her the air of 
knowing too much, and helped to deprive her of the interesting 
character of an unprotected female; but she turned a perfectly deaf 
ear to his admonitions, hints, and counsel. He was a safe adviser, 
nevertheless, in matters of this sort; but Mary Monson was not ac- 
customed so much to follow the leadings of others, as to submit to 
her own impulses.' 

The sisters of Burton were next examined. They proved all the 
admitted facts; testified as to the stocking and its contents; and two 
of them recognized the piece of gokl which was said to have been 
found in Mary Monson’s purse, as that which , had once been the 
property of Dorothy Goodwin.. On this head, the testimony of each 
was full, direct, and explicit. Each had often seen The piece of 
gold, and they had noted a very small notch or scratch near the 
edge, which notch or scratch was visible on the piece now presented 
in court* The cross-examination failed^’ to shake this testimony, and 
well it might, for every word these young women stated was strictly 
true. The experiment of placing the piece of Coin among other 
similar coin, failed with them. They easily recognized the true 
piece by the notch. Timms was confounded; Dunscomb looked 
very grave; Williams raised his nose higher than ever; and Mary 


250 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


Monson was perfectly surprised. When the notch was first men- 
tioned, she arose, advanced far enough to examine the coin, and laid 
her hand on her forehead, as it she pondered painfully on the cir- 
cumstance. The testimony that this was the identical piece found 
in her purse was very ample, the coin having been sealed up and 
kept by the coroner, who had brought it into court; while it must 
now be admitted that a very strong case was made out to show that 
this foreign coin had once been among the hoards of Dorothy Good- 
win. A very deep impression was made by this testimony on all 
who heard it, including the court, the bar,*the jury and the audi 
ence. Every person present, but those who were in the immediate 
confidence of the accused, was firmly convinced of Mary Monson 's 
guilt. ^Perhaps the only other exceptions to this mode of thinking 
were a few experienced practitioners, who, from long habit, knew 
the vast importance of hearing both sides, before they made up their 
minds in a matter of so much moment. 

We shall not follow Dunscomb through his long and arduous- 
cross-examination of the sisters of Burton; but confine ourselves to 
a few of the more pertinent of the interrogatories that he put to the 
eldest, and which were duly repeated when the other two were placed 
on the stand. 

“ Will you name the persons dwelling in the house of the Good- 
wins at the time of the fire?” asRed Dunscomb. 

“ There were the two old folks, this Mary Monson, and a German 
woman named Yetty (Jette), that Aunt Dorothy took in to wait on 
her boarders. ” 

” Was Mrs. Goodwin your aunt, then?” 

“No; we wasn’t related no how; but, being such near neighbors, 
and she so old, we just called her aunt by way of a compliment.” 

“ 1 understand that,” said Dunscomb, arching his brows — “ 1 am 
called uncle, apd by very charming young persons, on the same 
principle. Did you know much of this German?'’ 

“ 1 saw her almost every day for the time she was there, and 
talked with her as well as I could; but she spoke very little En- 
glish. Mary Monson was the only person who could talk with her 
freely; she spoke her language.” 

” Had you much acquaintance with the prisoner at the bar?” 

‘‘1 was some acquainted; as a body always is, when they live 
such near neighbors.” 

“Were your conversations with the prisoner frequent, or at all 
confidential?” 

“ To own the truth, 1 never spoke to her in my life. Mary Mon- 
son was much too grand for me.” 

Dunscomb smiled; lie understood how common it was for persons 
in this country to say they are “ well acquainted ” with this or that 
individual, when their whole knowledge is derived from the com- 
mon tongue. An infinity of mischief is done by this practice; but 
the ordinary American who will admit that he lives near any one, 
without, having an acquaintance with him, if acquaintance is sup- 
posed to confer credit, is an extraordinary exception to a very gen- 
eral rule. The idea of being “ too grand ” was of a nature to injure 
the prisoner and to impair her rights; and Dunscomb deemed it 
best to push the witness a little on this point. 


THE WATS OF THE HOUR. • 251 

“ Why did you think Mary Monson was * too grand * for you?” 
he demanded. 

“ Because she looked so.” 

“ How did she look? In what way does or did her looks indicate 
that she was, “or thought herself ‘ too grand ’ for your association?” 

“ Is this necessary, Mr. Dunscomb?” demanded the judge. 

“ I beg your honor will suiter the gentleman to proceed-,” put in 
Williams, cocking his nose higher than ever, and looking round the 
court room with an air of intelligence that the great York counselor 
did not like. “ It is an interesting subject; and we poor, ignorant, 
Dukes County folks, may get useful ideas, to teach us how to look 
4 too grand!’” 

Dunscomb felt that he had made a false step; and he had the 
self-command to stop. 

“ Had you any conversation with the German woman?” he con- 
tinued, bowing slightly to the judge to denote submission to his 
pleasure. 

“ She couldn’t talk English. Mary Monson talked with her 1 
didn’t, to any account.” 

“ Were you at the fire?” 

“ I was.” 

Did you see anything of this German during the fire, or after- 
ward?” 

“ 1 didn’t. She disappeared, unaccountable!” 

“ Did you visit the Goodwins as often after Mary Monson came 
to live with them, as you had done previously?” 

V 1 didn’t — grand looks and grand language isn’t agreeable to 
me. ’ ’ 

“ Did Mary Monson ever speak to you?” 

“ 1 think, your honor,” objected Williams, who did not like Ihe 
question, “ that this is traveling out of llie record.” 

“Let the gentleman proceed— time is precious, and a discussion 
would lose us more of it than to let him proceed— go on, Mr. Duns- 
comb. ” . 

“ Did Mary Monson ever speak to you?” 

“ She never did, to my knowledge.” 

“ What, then, do you mean by ‘ grand language ’?” 

’ • Why, when she spoke to Aunt Dorothy, she didn’t speak as 1 

was used to hear folks speak.” 

“ In what respect was the difference?” 

“ She was grander in her speech, and more pretending like.” 

“ Do you mean louder?” 

“ No— perhaps she wasn’t as loud as common— but ’twas more 
like a book, and uncommon.” 

Dunscomb understood all this perfectly, as well as the feeling 
which lay at its bottom, but he saw that the jury did not; and he 
was forced to abandon the inquiry, as often happens on such occa- 
sions, on account of the ignorance of those to whom the testimony 
was addressed. He soon after abandoned the cross-examination of 
the sister of Burton; when his wife was brought upon the stand by 
the prosecution. 

This woman, coming from a different stock, had none of the 
familv characteristics of the sisters. As they were garrulous, for- 


252 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


ward, and willing enough to testify, she was silent, reserved in man- 
ner, thoughtful, and seemingly so diffident that she trembled all 
over, as she laid her hand on the sacred volume. Mrs. Burton 
passed for a very good woman among all who dwelt in or near 
Biberry; and there was much more Donfidence felt in her revelations 
than in those of her sister-in-law. Great modesty, not to say timidity 
of manner, an air of singular candor, a low, gentle voice, and an 
anxious expression of countenance, as if she weighed the import of 
every syllable she uttered, soon won for this witness the sympathy 
of all present, as well as perfect credence. Every word she uttered 
had a direct influence ou the case; and this so much the more since 
she testified reluctantly, and would gladly have been permitted to 
say nothing. 

The account given by Mrs. Burton, in her examination in chief, 
did not materially differ from that previously stated by her sisters- 
in-law. She knew more, in some respects, than those who had pre- 
' ceded her, while, in others, she knew less. She had been more in 
the confidence of Dorothy Goodwin than any other member of her 
family, had seen her oftener, and knew more of her private affairs. 
With the stocking and its contents she admitted that she was 
familiarly acquainted. The gold exceeded twelve hundred dollars 
in amount; she had counted it, in her own hands. There was 
paper, also, but she did not know how much, exactly, as Dorothy 
kept that very mucii to herself. She knew, however, that her 
neighbors talked of purchasing a farm, the price of which was quite 
five thousand dollars, a sum that Dorothy often talked of paying 
down. She thought the deceased must have had money to that 
amount, in some form or other. 

On the subject of the piece of gold found in Mary Monson’s- 
purse, Mrs. Burton gave her testimony with the most amiable dis- 
cretion. Every one compared the reserve and reluctance of her 
manner most favorably with the pert readiness of Mrs. Pope and 
the sisteis. ' This witness appeared to appreciate the effect of all 
she said, and uttered the facts she knew with a gentleness of man- 
ner that gave great weight to her testimony. Dunscomb soon saw 
that this was the witness the defense had most reason to dread, and 
he used the greatest care in having every word she said written out 
with precision. 

Mrs. Burton swore point blank to the piece of notched gold, al- 
though she fairly trembled as she gave her testimony. She knew 
it was the very piece that she had often seen in Dorothy Goodwin s 
possession; she had. examined it, at least a dozen times, and could 
have selected it among: a thousand similar coins, by means of its 
private marks. Besides the notch, there was a slight defect in the 
impression of the date. This had been pointed out to her by 
Dorothy Goodwin herself, who had said it was a good mark by 
which to know the piece, should it be stolen. On this head,, the 
witness’s testimony was firm, clear, and full. As it was corroborated 
by so much other evidence, the result was a deep and very general 
impression of the prisoner’s guilt. 

It was late when the examination in chief of Mrs. Burton termi- 
nated. She stated that she' was much fatigued, and was suffering 
under a severe headache; and Williams asked, in her behalf, that 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. v 253 

the court would adjourn over, until next day, ere the cross-exami- 
nation was gone into. This suited Dunscomb’s views altogether, 
for he knew he might lose an essential advantage by allowing the 
witness a night to arrange her thoughts, pending so searching a 
process. There being no resistance on the part of the prisoner, to 
the request of the prosecution, the judge so far waived his regard 
for the precious time of the court, as to consent to adjourn at eight 
o’clock in the evening, instead of pushing the case to ten or eleven. 
As a consequence the jurors took their rest in bed, instead of sleep- 
ing in the jury-box. 

Dunscomb left the court-house, that night, dejected, and with no. 
great expectation of the acquittal of his client. Timms had a bet- 
ter feeling, and thought nothing had yet appeared that might not be 
successfully resisted. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

“ I’ve not wronged her.” 

“ Far be it from my fears.” 

“ Then why this argument?” 

“ My lord, my nature’s jealous, and you’ll bear it.” 

Otway. 

So great was the confidence of Sarah Wilmeter and Anna Updyke 
in the innocence of their friend, that almost every stfep that the trial 
advanced, appeared to them as so much progress toward an eventual 
acquittal. It was perhaps a little singular, that the party most in- 
terested, she who knew her <?wn guilt or innocence, became de- 
jected, and for the first half hour after they had left the court-room 
she was silent and thoughtful. Good Mrs. Gott was quite in de- 
spair, and detained Anna Updyke, with whom she had established 
a sort of intimacy, as she opened the door of the galley for the ad- 
mission of the party, in order to say a word on the subject that lay 
nearest to her heart. 

“ Oh! Miss Auna,” said the sheriff’s wife, “ it goes from bad to 
worse! It was bad enough last evening, and it is worse to-night.” 

“ Who tells you this, Mrs. Gott? So far from thinking as you 
do, 1 regard it as appearing particularly favorable.” 

“You must have head what Burton said, and what his wife said 
too. They are the witnesses I dread.” 

“ Yes, but who will mind what such persons say! 1 am sure if 
fifty Mr. and Mrs. Burtons were to testify that Mary Monson had 
taken money that did not belong to her, 1 should not believe them.” 

“You are not a Dukes County jury! Why, Miss Anna, these 
men will' believe almost anything you tell them. Only swear to it, 
and there’s no accounting for their credulity. No; i no more be- 
lieve in Mary Monson’s guilt, than l do in my own; but law is law, 
they say, and rich and poor must abide by it.” 

“You view the matter under a false light, my kind-hearted Mrs. 
Gott, and after a night’s rest will see the case differently. Sarah 
and 1 have been delighted with the course of things. You must 
have remarked no one said that Mary Monson had been seen to set. 
fire to the house, or to harm the Goodwins, or to touch their prop- 


254 THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 

fcrty, or to do anything that was wrong; and ot course she must be 
acquitted.” 

‘'lwish that piece of gold had not been found in her pocket! 
It’s that which makes all the trouble.” 

“ 1 think nothing of that, my gobd friend. There is nothing re- t 
markable in two pieces of money having the same marks on them; 
1 have seen that often, myself. Besides, Mary Monson explains all 
that, and her declaration is as good as that of this Mrs. Burton’s, 
any day.” 

Not in law, Miss Anna; no, not in law. Out ot doors it might 
be much better, and probably is; but not in court, by what they tell 
me. Gott says it is beginning to look very dark, and that we, in 
the jail, iiere, must prepare for the very worst. I tell him, it 1 was 
he, I’d resign before I’d execute such a beautiful creature!” 

‘‘"You make me shudder with such horrid thoughts, Mrs. Gott, 
and I will thank you to open- the door Take courage; we shall 
never have to lament such a catastrophe, or your husband to per 
form so revolting a duty.” 

“ I hope not— I’m sure 1 hope not, with all my heart. 1 would 
prefer that Gott should give up all hopes of ever lising any higher, 
than have him do this office. One never knows. Miss Anna, what 
is to happen in life, though 1 was as happy as a child when he was 
made sheriff. If my words have any weight with him, and he often 
says they have, I shall never let him execute Mary Monson. You 
are young, Miss Anna; but you’ve heard the tongue of flattery, I 
make no doubt, and know how sweet it is to woman’s ear.” 

Mrs. Gott had been wiping her eyes with one hand, and putting 
the key into the lock with the other, while talking, and she now 
stood regarding her young companion with a sort of motherly in- 
terest, as she made this appeal to her experience. Anna blushed 
‘ rosy red,’ and raised her gloved hand to turn the key, as it desir- 
ous of getting away from the earnest look of the matron. 

“ That’s just the way with all of us, Miss Anna!” continued Mrs. 
Gott. “We listen, and listen, and listen; and believe, and believe, 
and believe, until we aie no longer the gay, light-hearted creatures 
that we were, but become mopy, and sightul, and anxious, to a de- 
gree that makes us forget father and mother, and fly from the 
paternal roof. ” 

“ Will you have the kindness, now, to let me into the jail?” said 
Anua, in-the gentlest voice imaginable. 

“ In a minute, my dear — I call you my dear, because I like you; 
for 1 never use what Gott calls ‘high-flown.’ There is Mi. John 
Wilmeter, now, as handsome and agreeable a youth as ever came to 
Biberry. He comes here two or three times a day, and sits and talks 
with me in the most agreeable way, until I’ve got to like him better 
than any young man of my acquaintance. He talks of you, quite 
half the time; and when he is not talking of you, he is thinking of 
you, as 1 know by the way he gazes at this very door.” 

“ Perhaps his thoughts are on Mary Monson,” answered Anna, 
blushing scarlet. “ You know she is a sort of client of his, and he 
has been here in her service, for a good while.” 

“ She hardly ever saw him; scarcely ever, except at this 
grate. His foot never crossed this threshold, until his uncle came; 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUE. 255 

and since, I believe he has gone in but once. Mary Monson is not 
the being he worships.” 

“ I trust he worships the Being we all worship, Mrs. Gott,” strug- 
•gling gently to turn the key, and succeeding. “ It is not for us 
poor frail beings to talk of being worshiped.” 

” Or of worshiping, as 1 tell Gott,” said the sheriffs wife, per- 
mitting her companion to depart. 

Anna found Mary Monson and Sarah walking together in the 
gallery, conversing earnestly. 

“It is singular that nothing reaches us from Michael Milling- 
ton!” exclaimed the last, as Anna interlocked arms with her, and 
joined the party. “ It is now near eight-and -forty hours since my 
uncle sent him to town.” 

” On my business?” demanded Mary Monson, quickly. 

“ Certainly; on no other — though what it was that took him away 
so suddenly, 1 have not been told. I trust you will be able to over- 
turn all that these Burtons have said, aud to repair the mischief they 
have done?” 

” Fear nothing for me, Miss Wilmeter,” answered the prisoner, 
with singular steadiness of mauner — “ 1 tell you, as 1 have often 
told your friend, 1 must be acquitted. Let justice take its course, 
say 1, and the guilty be punished. I have a clew to the whole 
story, as 1 believe, and must make provision for to-morrow. Do 
you two, dear, warm-hearted friends as you are, now leave me; and 
when you reach the inn, send Mr. Duuscomb hither, as soon as pos- 
sible. Not that Timms; but noble, honest, upright Mr. Dunscomb. 
Kiss me, each of you, and so good night. Think of me imyour 
prayers. 1 am a great sinner, and have need of your prayers.” 

The wishes of Mary Monson were obeyed, and the young ladies 
left the jail for the night. Ten minutes later Dunscomb reached the 
place, and was admitted. His conference with his client was long, 
intensely interesting, and it quite unsettled the notions he had now, 
for some time, entertained of her guilt. She did not communicate 
any thing concerning her past life, nor did she make any promises 
on that subject; but she did communicate facts of great importance, 
as connected with the result of her trial. Dunscomb left her, at a 
late hour, with views entirely cnanged, hopes revived, and his reso- 
lution stimulated. He made ample entries in his brief; nor did he 
lay his head on his pillow until it was very late. 

The little court-house bell rang as usual, next morning, and 
judge, jurors, witnesses, lawyers, and the curious in general, col- 
lected as before, without any cereraony r , though in decent quiet. 
The case was now getting to be so serious, that all approached it as 
truly a matter of life and death; even the reporters submitting to an 
impulse of humanity, and viewing the whole affair less in a busi 
ness point o fH view, than as one which might carry a singularly 
gifted woman into the other world. The first act of the day opened 
by putting Mrs. Burton on the stand, for her cross-examination. 
As every intelligent person present understood that on her testimony 
depended the main result, the tall of a pin might almost have beers 
heard, so profound was the general wish to catch what was going 
on. The ’witness, however, appeared to be calm, while the advo- 
cate was pale and anxious. He had the air of one who had slept 


256 


THE W^YS OF THE HOUp. 

little the past night. He arranged his papers with studied care, 
made each movement deliberately, compressed his lips, and seemed 
to be bringing his thougnts into such a state of order and distinct- 
ness that each might be resorted to as it was neediuh In point of 
fact, Dunscomb foresaw that a human life depended very much orf 
the result of this cross-examination, and, like a conscientious man, 
he was disposed to do his whole duty. IS io wonder, then," that he 
paused to reflect, was deliberate in liis acts, ahd concentrated in 
feeling. 

“ We will first give our attention to this piepe of gold, Mrs. Bur- 
ton,” the counsel "for the prisoner mildly commenced, motioning to 
the coroner, who was in court, to show the witness the piece of 
money so often examined. “ Are you quite certain that it is the 
very coin that you saw in the possession of Mrs. Goodwin?” 

' ‘ Absolutely certain, sir. As certain as I am of anything in the 
world.” 

Mrs. Burton, I wish you to remember that the life of the pris- 
oner at the bar will, most probably, be affected by your testimony. 
Be kind enough, then, to be very guarded and close in your answers. 
Do you still say that this is the precise' coin that you once saw in 
Mrs. Goodwin’s stocking?” 

The witness seemed suddenly struck with the manner of the ad- 
vocate. She trembled from head to toot. Still, Dunscomb spoke 
mildly, kindly even; and the idea conveyed in the present, was but 
a repetition of that conveyed in the former question. Nevertheless, 
those secret agencies, by means of which thought meets thought, 
unknown to all but their possessors; that set in motion, as it might 
be, all the covert currents of the mind, causing them to flow toward 
similar streams in the mind of another, were now at work, and 
Dunscomb and the witness had a clew to each other’s meaning that 
entirely escaped the observation of all around them. There is noth-, 
ing novel in this state of secret intelligence. It doubtless depends 
on a mutual consciousness, and a common knowledge of certain 
material facts, the latter being applied by the termer, with prompti- 
tude and tact. Notwithstanding her sudden alarm, and the change 
it brought over her entire manner, Mrs. Bui ton answered the ques- 
tion as before; what was more, she answered it truly. The piece 
of gold found in Mary Monson’s purse, and now in possession of 
the coroner, who had kept it -carefully, in order to identify it, had 
been in Dorothy Goodwin’s stocking. 

“ Quite certain,, sir. 1 know that to be the same piece of money 
that 1 saw, at different times, in Mrs. Goodwin’s stocking.” 

“ Did you ever have that gold coin in your own hand, Mrs. Bur- 
ton, previously to this trial?” 

This was a very natural and simple interrogatory; one that might 
be, and probably was, anticipated; yet it gave the witness uneasi- 
ness, more from the manner of Dunscomb, perhaps, than from any- 
thing in the nature of the inquiry itself. The answer, however, 
was given promptly, and, as before, with peifect truth. 

“On several occasions, sir. 1 saw. that notch, and talked with 
Mrs. Goodwin about it, more than once.” 

“ What was the substance of Mrs. Goodwin’s remarks, in relation 
to that notch?” 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. £57 

<c She asked me, one time, if 1 thought it lessened the weight of 
the coin; and if so, how much I thought it might take away from 
its value?” 

“ What was your answer?” 

“ I believe 1 said 1 did not think it could make any great differ- 
ence.” 

“ Did Mrs. Goodwin ever tell you how, or where, she got that 
piece of money?” 

“ Yes, sir, she did. She told me it came from Mary Monson.” 

“ l n pay for board; or, for what purpose did it pass from one to 
the other?” 

This, too, was a very simple question, but the witness no longer 
answered promptly. The reader will remember that Mary Monson 
had said before the coroner, that she had two of these coins, and 
that she had given one cf them to the poor unfortunate deceased, 
and had left the other in her own purse. This answer had in- 
jured the cause of the accused, inasmuch as it w T as very easy to tell 
such a tale, -while few in Biberry were disposed to believe that gold 
passed thus freely, and without any consideration, from hand to 
hand. Mrs. Bui ton remembered all this* and, for a reason best 
known to herself, she shrank a little from making the required 
reply. Still she did answer this question also, and answered it truly. 

“ 1 understood Aunt Dolly to say that Mary Monson made her a 
present of that piece or money.” 

Here Timms elevated his nose, and looked around him in a mean- 
ing manner, that appealed to the audience to know if his client was 
not a person of veracity. Sooth to say, this answer made a strong 
impression in favor of the accused, and Dunscomb saw with Satis- 
faction that, in so much, he had materially gained ground. He 
was not a man to gain it, however, by dramatic airs; he merely 
paused for a few moments, in order to give lull effect to this ad- 
« vantage. 

“ Mrs. Goodwin, then, owned to you that she had the com from 
Mary Monson, and that it was a present?” was the next question. 

“ She did, sir.” 

” Did she say anything about Mary Monson’s having another 
piece of money, like the one before you, and which was given by 
her to Dorothy Goodwin?” 

A long pause succeeded. The witness raised a hand to her brow, 
and appeared to meditate.* Her reputation for taciturnity and grav- 
ity of deportment was such, that most of those in court believed she 
was endeavoring to recollect the past, in order to say neither more 
nor less than the truth. In point of fact, she was weighing well 
the effect of her words, for she was a person of extreme caution, 
and of great reputed probity of character. The reply came at. 
length — 

“ She did speak on the subject,” she said, “ and did state some- 
thing of the kind.” 

“ Can you recollect her words— if so, give them to the jury— if 
not her very words, their substance.” 

“ Aunt Dolly had a way of her own in talking, which makes it 
very difficult to repeat her precise words; but she said, in substance 
9 / 


258 THE WAYS OE THE HOUR. 

that Mary Monson had two of these pieces of money, one of which 
was given to her/* 

“ Mary Monson, then, kept the other?” 

, “ So 1 understood it, sir.” 

“ Have you any knowledge yourself, on this subject? If so, state 
it to the jury.” 

Another pause, one even longer than before, and again the hand 
was raised to the brow. The witness now spoke with extreme cau- 
tion, seeming to feel her way among the facts, as a cat steals on its 
prey. 

“ 1 believe 1 have — a little — some — 1 have seen Mary Monson’s 
purse, and I believe 1 saw a piece of money in it which resembled 
this.” . 

“ Are you not certain of the fact?” 

“ Perhaps I am.” 

Here Dunscomb’s face was lighted with a ‘smile; he evidently 
was encouraged. 

“ Were ymu present, Mrs. Burton, when Mary Monson’s purse 
was examined, in presence of the inquest?” 

“1 was.” 

“ Did you then see its contents?” 

“ 1 did ” — after the longest pause of all. 

“ Had you that purse'in your hand, ma’am?” 

The brow was once more shaded, and the recollection seem- 
ingly taxed. 

“ 1 think 1 had. It was passed round among us, and I believe 
that 1 touched it, as well as others. ” 

“ Are you not certain that you did so^” 

“Yes, sir. Now, 1 reflect, 1 know that 1 did. The piece of 
money found in Mary Monson’s purse, was passed from one to- 
another, and to me, among th6 rest.” 

“ This was very wrong,” observed his honor. 

“ It was wrong, sir; but not half as wrong as the murders and ar- 
son,” coolly remarked Williams. 

“ Go on, gentlemen — time is precious.” 

“ Now, Mrs. Burton, 1 wish to ask you a very particular question,, 
and 1 beg that your answer may be distinct and guarded— did you 
ever have access, to the piece of gold found, or said to be found, in 
Mary Monson’s purse, except on Ithe occasion of the inquest?” 

The longest pause of all, and the deepest shading of the brow. 
So long was theselt-deliberation this time, as to excite a little remark 
among the spectators. Still, it was no more than prudent, to be 
cautious, in a cause of so much importance. 

“ 1 certainly have, sir,” was the reply that came at last. “ I saw* 
it in Dorothy Good win-’ s stocking, several times; had it in my 
hand, and examined it. This is the way 1 came to discover the 
notch. Aunt Dolly and 1 talked about that notch, as 1 have already 
told the court. ’ ’ 

“ Quite true, ma’am, we remember that; all your answers are 
carefully written out — ” 

“ I’m sure, nothing that l have said can be written out, which is 
not true, sir.” 

“ We are to suppose that. And now, ma’am, permit me to ask if 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 259 

you ever saw that piece of money at any other, time than at those 
you have mentioned. Be particular in the answer.” 

” 1 may,” after a long pause. 

“ Do you not know 

” I do not, sir.” 

“ Will you say, on your oath, that you can not recollect any one 
occasion, other than those you have mentioned, on which you have 
seen and handled that piece of money?” 

“ When Aunt Dolly showed it to me, before the coroner, and here 
in court. 1 recollect no other time.” 

“ Let me put this question to ypu again, Mrs. Burton— recalling 
the solemnity of the oath you have taken— have you, or have you 
not, seen that piece of money on any other occasion than those you 
Lave just mentioned?” 

” 1 do not remember ever to have seen it at any other time,” an- 
swered the woman, firmly. 

Mary Monson gave a little start, and Duhscomb appeared disap-* 
pointed. Timms bit his lip, and looked anxiously at the jury, while 
Williams once more cocked his nose, and looked around him in tri- 
umph. It th& witness spoke the truth, she was now likely to adhere 
to it; if, on the. other hand, there were really any ground for Duns- 
tfomb’s question, the witness had passed the Rubicon, and would 
adhere to her falsehood even more tenaciously than she would ad- 
here to the truth. The remainder of this cross-examination was of 
very little importance. Nothing further was obtained from the wit- 
ness that went to shake her testimony. 

Our limits will not permit a detailed account of all the evidence 
that was given in behalf of the prosecution. All that appeared be- 
fore the inquest was now introduced, methodized and arranged by 
"Williams; processes that rendered it much more respectable than it 
had originally appeared to be. At length it came to the turn of the 
<iefense"to open. This was a task that Dunscomb took on himself. 
Timms, in his judgment, being unequal to it. His opening was 
very effective, in the way of argument, though necessarily^ not con 
elusive, the case not making in favor of his client. 

The public expected important revelations as to the past, history 
of the prisoner, and of this Timms had apprised Dunscomb. The 
latter, however, was not prepared to make them. Mary Monson 
maintained all her reserve, and Millington did not return. The 
cause was now so far advanced as to render it improbable that any 
facts, of this nature, could be obtained in sufficient season to be 
used, anti the counsel saw the necessity of giving a new turn to this 
particular point in the case. He consequently complained that the 
prosecution had neglected to show anything in the past life, of the 
accused to render it probable she had been guilty of the offenses 
with which she was charged. “ Mary Monson appears here,” he 
went on -to say, “ with a character as fair as that of any other female 
in the community. This is the presumption of law, and you. will 
truly regard her, gentlemen, -as one that is innocent until she is 
proved to be guilty.” The inference drawn from the silence ofjhe 
prosecution was not strictly logical, perhaps; but Dunscomb man- 
aged at least to mystify the matter in such a way as to prepare the 
jury to hear a defense that would be silent on this head, and to 


260 THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 

leave a doubt whether this silence were not solely the fault of the 
counsel for the prosecution. While he was commenting on this- 
branch of the subject, Williams took notes f uriously, and Timms- 
foresaw that he meant to turn the tables on them, at the proper mo- 
ment. 

Pretty much as a matter of course, Dunscomb was compelled to> 
tell the court and jury that the defense relied principally on the in- 
sufficiency of the evidence of the other side. This was altogether 
circumstantial; and the circumstances, as lie hoped to be able to- 
convince the jury, were of a nature that admitted of more than one 
construction Whenever this was the case, it was the duty of tne 
jury to give the accused the full benefit of these doubts. The rest 
of the opening had the usual character of appeals to the sympathy^ 
and justice of the jury, very prudently and properly put. 

Dr. McBrain was now placed upon the stand, when the custom- 
ary questions were asked, to show that he was a witness entitled to 
.the respect of the court. He was then further interrogated, as- 
follows: 

V Have you seen the two skeletons that are now in court, and 
which are said to have been taken from the ruins of the house of the 
Goodwins?” 

“ 1 have. I saw them before the inquest; and 1 have again exam- 
ined them here, in court.” 

“ What do you say, as to their sex?” 

“ 1 believe them both to be the skeletons of females.” 

“ Do you feel certain of this fact?” 

“ Reasonably so, but not absolutely. No one can pronounce with 
perfect, certainty in such a case; more especially when the remains, 
are in the state in which these have been found. W'e are guided 
principally by the comparative size of the bones; and, as these are 
affected by the age of the subject, it is hazardous to be positive. 1 
can only say that I think both of these skeletons belonged to female- 
subjects; particularly the shortest.” 

‘‘ Have you measured the skeletons?” 

“ 1 have, and find one rather more than an inch and a half shorter 
than the other. The longest measures quite five feet seven and a 
half, in the state in which it is; while the shortest measures a trifle. 
Jess than five feet six. If women, both were of unusual stature: 
particularly the first. I think that v tlie bones of both indicate that 
they belonged to females; and 1 should have thought the same had. 
1 known nothing of the reports which have reached my ears touch- 
ing the persons whose remains these are said to be.” 

“When you first formed your opinion of the sex of those to 
whom these remains belonged, had you heard that there was a Ger- 
man woman staying in the house of the Goodwins at the time of the- 
fire?” 

“1 think not; though 1 have taken so little heed of these ru- 
mors as to be uncertain when 1 first heard this circumstance. 1 do 
remember, however, that 1 was under the impression the remains- 
were, beyond a doubt, those of Peter Go.odwun and his wife, when 
1 commenced the examination of them; and 1 very distinctly recol- 
lect the surprise 1 felt when the conviction crossed my mind that 
both were the skeletons of women. From the nature of this feeling. 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUK. 


261 

1 ratlier think 1 could not have heard anything of the German fe- 
male at that time.” 

The cross-examination of Dr. McBrain, was very long and search- 
ing; but it did not materially affect the substance of his testimony. 
On the contrary, it rather strengthened it; since he had it in his 
power to explain himself more fully under the inierrogatories of 
Williams, than he could do in an examination in chief" Still, he 
could go no further than give his strong belief; declining to pro- 
nounce positively on the sex of either "individual, in the state in 
which the remains were found. 

Although nothing positive was obtained from this testimony, the 
minds of the jurors were pointedly directed to the circumstance of 
the sudden and unexplained disappearance of the German woman; 
thus making an opening for the admission of a serious doubt con- 
nected with the fate of that person. 

It was a sad thing to reflect that, beyond this testimony of Mc- 
Brain there was little other direct evidence to offer in behalf of the 
accused. It is true, the insufficiencj 7 of that which had been pro- 
duced by the prosecution might avail her much; and on this Duns- 
comb saw that his hopes of an acquittal must depend; but' he could 
not refrain from regretting, and that bitterly, that the unmoved 
resolution of his client not to let her past life be known, must se 
much weaken his case, were she innocent, and so much fortify that 
of the prosecution, under the contrary supposition. Another physi- 
cian or two were examined to sustain McBrain; but, after all, the 
condi lion of the remains was such as to render any testimony ques- 
tionable. One witness went so far as to say, it is true, that he 
thought he could distinguish certain unerring signs of the sex in the 
length of the lower limbs, and in other similar proof; but even 
McBrain was forced to admit lhat such distinctions were very vague 
and unsatisfactory. His own opinion was formed more froni the 
size of the bones, generally, than from any 'other proof. In gen- 
eral, there was little difficulty in speaking of the sex of the subject, 
when the skeleton was entire and well preserved, and particularly 
when the .teeth furnished some clew to the age; but, in this particu- 
lar case, as has already been stated, there could be no such thing as 
absolute certainty. . 

It was with a heavy heart, and with many an anxious glance cast 
toward the door, in the hope of seeing Michael Millington enter, 
that Dunscomb admitted the prisoner had no further testimony to 
offer. He had spun out the little he did possess, in order to give it 
an appearance of importance which it did not actually bring with it; 
and to divert the minds of tne jurors from the impression they had 
probably obtained, of the remains necessarily beiug those of Good- 
win and his wife. 

The summing up on both sides was a grave and solemn scene. 
Here Williams was thrown out, the district attorney choosing to- 
perform his own duty on an occasion so serious. Dunscomb made 
a noble appeal to the juslice of the court and jury; admonishing 
both of the danger of yielding too easily to circumstantial evidence. 
It was the best possible proof, he admitted, when the circumstances 
were sufficiently clear and sufficiently shown to be themselves be- 
yond controversy. That Mary Monson dwelt with the Goodwins* 


262 


THE WAYS OE THE HOUE 


was in the house at the time of the arson and murder, if such crimes 
were ever committed at all; that she escaped and all her property 
was saved, would ot themselves amount to nothing. The testimony, 
indeed, on several of these heads, rather tokl in her favor than the 
reverse. The witnesses for the prosecution proved that she was in 
her room, beneath the roof, when the flames broke out, and was 
.saved with difficulty. This was a most material fact, and Duns- 
comb turned it to good account. Would an incendiary be apt to 
place herself in a situation in which her own life was in danger: 
and this, too, under circumstances that rendered no such measure 
necessary? Then, all the facts connected with Mary Monson ’s resi- 
dence and habits told in her favor. Why should she remain so long 
at the cottage if robbery was her only purpose? The idea ot her be- 
longing to a gang that had sent her to make discoveries and to exe- 
cute its plans, was preposterous; for what hindered any of the men 
of that gang from committing the crimes in the most direct man- 
ner, and with the least loss of time? No; if Mary Monson were 
guilty, she was undoubtedly guilty on her own account; and had 
been acting with the uncertain aim and hand ot a woman. The 
jury must discard all notions of accomplices, and consider the 
testimony solely in connection with the acts of the accused. Ac- 
complices, and those of the nature supposed, would have greatly 
simplified the whole of the wretched transaction.. They would nave 
Tendered both the murders and arson unnecessary. The bold and 
strong do not commit these crimes, except in those cases in which 
resistance renders them necessary. Here was clearly no resistance, 
as was shown by the quiet positions in which the skeletons had 
been found. If a murder was directly committed, it must have 
been by the blow on the heads; and the jury was asked to consider 
whether a delicate female like Mary Monson had even the physical 
force necessary to strike such a blow. With what instrument was 
it done? Nothing ot the sort was found near the bodies; and no 
proof of any such blow was before the jury. One witness had said 
that the iron- work of a plow lay quite near the remains; and it 
had been shown that Peter Goodwin kept such articles in a loft 
ever his bedroom. He would suggest the possibility of the fire’s 
having commenced in that loft, through which the pipe of a cook- 
ing-stove led; ot its having Consumed the beams of the floor; letting 
down this plow and share upon the heads of the sleeping couple 
below, stunning, if not killing them; thus leaving them unresisting 
subjects to the action of £he element. McBrain had been examined 
on this point, which we omitted to state in its place, to prevent repe- 
tition. He, and the two other doctors brought forward for the de- 
fense, had tried to place the plowshare on the skulls, and were of 
opinion that the injuries might have been .inflicted by that piece of 
iron. But Mary JVlonson could not use such an instrument. This 
was beyond all dispute. If the plowshare inflicted the blow— and 
the testimony on this point was at least entitled to respect — then 
was Mary Monson innocent of any murder committed by direct 
means. It is true, she was responsible for all her acts; and if she 
set fire to the building, she was probably guilty ot murder as well 
as of arson. But would she have done this, and made no provision 
for her own escape? The evidence was clear that she was rescued 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 263 

by means of a ladder, and through a window ; and that there were 
no other means of escape.” 

Dunscomb reasoned on these several points with great force and 
ingenuity. So clear were his statements, so logical his inferences,, 
and so candid his mode of arguing, that he had produced a great 
effect ere he closed this branch of liis subject. It is true, that one 
far more difficult remained to be met; to answer which he now set 
about with fear and trembling. 

We allude to the piece of money alleged to have been found in 
Mary Monson’s purse. Dunscomb had very little difficulty in disr 
posing of the flippant Widow Pope; but the Burton family gave him 
more trouble. Nevertheless, it was his duty to endeavor to get rid 
of them, or at least so far to weaken their testimony as to give his 
client the benefit of the doubt. There was, in truth, but one mode 
of doing this. It was to impress on the jury the probability that 
the coin had been changed in passing from hand to hand. It is. 
true, it was not easy to suggest any plausible reason why such an 
act of treachery should have been committed ; but it was a good 
legal point to show that this piece of money had not, at all times,, 
been absolutely under the eye or within the control ol the coroner; 
If there were a possibility of a change, the fact should and ought to 
tell in favor of his client. Mrs. Burton had made admission on this- 
point which entitled the prisoner to press the facts on the minds of 
the jurors; and her counsel did not tail so to do, with clearness and 
energy. After all, this was much the most difficult point of the 
case; and it would not admit of a perfectly satisfactory solution. 

The conclusion of Dunscomb's summing up was manly, touch- 
ing, even eloquent. He spoke of a lone and defenseless female, 
surrounded by strangers, being dragged to the bar on charges^of 
such gravity; pointeddo his client, where she sat enthralled by hie 
language, with all the signs of polished refinement on her dress, 
person, and manners; delicate, feminine, and beautiful; and asked 
if any one, who had the soul and feelings of a man, could believe 
that such a being had committed the crimes imputed to Mary Mon- 
son. 

The appeal was powerful, and was dwelt on just long enough' 
to give it full and fair effect. It left the bench, the bar, the jury- 
box, the whole audience, in fact, in tears The prisoner alone kept 
an un moistened eye; but it was in a face flushed with feeling. Her 
self-command was almost supernatural. 


CHAPTER XXV11. 

I’ll brave her to her face: 

I’ll give my anger its free course against her. 

Thou shalt see, Phoenix, how I’ll break her pride. 

The Distressed Mother. 

The district attorney was fully impressed with the importance 
of the duty that had now devolved on him. Although we have 
daily proofs on all sides of us, of the truth of 'that remark of Ba- 
con’s, “ that no man rises to eminence in the State without a mixt- 
ure of great and mean qualities,” this favorite of the people had 


264 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


his good points as well as another. He was a humane man; and, 
-contrary to the expectations, and greatly to the disappointment of 
Williams, he now took on himself the'office of summing-up. 

The public functionary commenced in a mild, quiet manner, man- 
ifesting by the kejr on which he pitched his voice a natural reluct- 
ance to his painful duty; but he was steady and collected. He 
opened with a brief summary of the facts. A strange female, of 
high personal pretensions, had taken lodgings in an humble dwell- 
ing. That dwelling contained a considerable sum of money. Some 
counted it by thousands; all by hundreds. In either case, it was a 
temptation to the covetous and ill-disposed. The lodgings were un- 
suited to the habits ot the guest; but she endured them for several 
weeks. A fire occurred, and the house was consumed. The re- 
mains of the husband and wife were found, as the jury saw them, 
with marks of violence on their skulls. A 'deadly blow had been 
struck by some one. The bureau containing the money was found 
locked, but the money itself was missing. One piece of that money 
was known, and it was traced to the purse of the female lodger. 
This stranger was arrested; and, in her mode of living in the jail, 
in her expenditures of every sort, she exhibited the habits and pro- 
fusion of one possessed of considerable sums. Doubtless many of 
the reports in circulation were false; exaggerations ever accompan- 
ied each statement of any unusual occurrence; but enough was 
proved to show that Mary Monson had a considerable amount of 
money at command. Whence came these funds? That which was 
lightly obtained went lightly. The jury were exhorted to reject 
every influence but that which was sustained by the evidence. All 
that had been here stated rested on uncontradicted, unresisted testi- 
mony. 

There was no desire to weaken the force of the defense. This, 
defense had been ingeniously and powerfully presented; and to 
what did it amount? The direct, unequivocal evidence of Mrs. 
Burton, as to her knowledge of the piece of money, and all that 
related to it, and this evidence sustained by so much that was 
known to others, the coroner included, was met by a conjecture. 
This conjecture was accompanied by an insinuation that some might 
suppose reflected on the principal witness; but it was only an in- 
sinuation. There were two legal modes of attacking the credibility 
ot a witness. One was by showing habitual mendacity; the other 
by demonstrating from the evidence itself, that the testimony could 
not be true. Had either been done in the present instance? The 
■district attorney thought not. One, and this the most common 
course, had not even been attempted. Insinuations, rather than just 
deductions, he wak compelled to say, notwithstanding his high re- 
spect for the learned counsel opposed to nim, had been the course 
adopted. That counsel had contended that the circumstances were 
not sufficient to justify a verdict of guilty. Of this, the jury were 
the sole judges, if they believed Mrs. Burton, sustained as she was 
by so much other testimony, they must admit that Dorothy Good- 
win’s money was found in Mary Monson’s purse. This was the 
turning point of the Case. All depended on the construction of this 
one fact. He left it to the jury, to their good sense, to their con- 
sciences. 


r* \ • / 

THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. &65 

On the part of the defense, great stress had been laid on the cir- 
cumstance that JVlary Monson was herself rescued from the flames 
with some difficulty. But for assistance, she would most probably 
have perished. The district attorney desired to deny nothing that 
could justly go to prove the prisoner’s innocence. The fact was 
unquestionably as stated,. But for assistance, Mary Monson might' 
have perished. But assistance was ^wanting; for strangers were 
most oppwtunely at hand, and they did this piece of good service. 
They remained until ail was over, and vanished. No one knew 
them; whence they came, or whither they went. Important agents 
in saving a life, they had gone without their reward, and were not 
even named in the newspaper accounts of the occurrence. Report- 
ers generally tell more than happens; in this instance, they were 
mute. 

As for the danger of the prisoner, it might have happened in a 
variety of ways that affected neither her guilt nor her innocence. 
After committing the murders, she may have gone into her room, 
and been unexpectedly inclosed by the flames; or the whole may 
have been previously planned, in order to give her the plea of this 
„ very dangerous situation, as a proof of innocence. Such immaterial 
circumstances were not to overshadow the very material facts on 
which the prosecution rested. 

Another important question was to be asked by the jury— If Mary 
Monson did not commit those crimes, who did? It had been sug- 
gested that the house might have taken fire by accident and that the 
plowshare was the real cause of the death of its owners. If this 
were so, did the plowshare remove the money? did the plowshare 
put the notched piece in Mary Monson’s purse? 

Such is an. outline of the manner in which the district attorney 
reasoned on the facts. His summing-up made a deep impression; 
the moderation of the manner in, which he pressed the guilt of thie 
accused, telling strongly against her. Nothing was said of aristoc- 
racy, or harps, or manners, or of anything else that did not fairly 
belong tothe subject. A great deal more was said, of course; but 
we do not conceive it necessary to advert to it. 

The charge was exceedingly impartial. The judge made a full 
exposition of all the testimony, pointed out its legitimate bearing, 
and dissected its weak points. As for the opinion of McBrain and 
his associates, the court conceived it entitled to a great deal of con- 
sideration. Here- were several highly respectable professional men 
testifying that, in their judgment, both the skeletons were those of 
females. The German woman was missing. What had become of 
her? In any case, the disappearance of that woman was very im- 
portant. She may have committed the crimes, and absconded; or 
one of the skeletons may have been hers. It was in evidence that 
Peter Goodwin and his wife did not live always in the most happy 
mood ; and he may have laid hands on the money, which was Djoba- 
bly his in the eyes of the law, and left the place. He had not been 
seen since the fire. The jury must take all the facts into their con- 
sideration, and decide according to their .consciences. 

This charge was deemed rather favorable to the accused than other- 
wise. The humanity of the judge was conspicuous throughout; and 
he leaned quite obviously to Dunscomb’s manner of treating the 


266 


THE WAYS OE THE HOUR. 


danger of Mary Monson from the flames, and dwelt on the fact 
that the piece of money was not sufficiently watched to make out an 
absolute case of identity. When he had done, the impression was 
very general that the prisoner would be acquitted. 

As it was reasonably supposed that a case of this importance 
would detain the jury a considerable time, the court permitted the 
prisoner to withdraw. She left the place, attended by -her two 
friends; the latter in tears, while Mary herself was still seemingly 
unmoved. The thoughtful Mrs. Gott had prepared refreshments for 
her; and, for the first time since her trial commenced, the fair pris- 
oner ate heartily. 

"I shall owe my triumph, not to money, my dear girls,” she 
said, while at table, “ not to friends, nor to a great afray of: counsel; 
but to truth. 1 did not commit these crimes; and on the testimony 
-of the State alone, with scarcely any of my own, the jury will have 
to say as much. No stain will rest on my character, and I can meet 
my friends with the unclouded brow of iunocence. This is a very 
precious moment to me; 1 would not part with it tor all the honors 
that riches and rank can bestow.' - ' 

” How strange that you, of all women, my dear mamma,” said 
Anna, kissing her cheek, “ should be accused of crimes so horrible 
to obtain a little money; for this poor Mrs. Goodwin could have 
had no great sum after all, and you are so rich!” 

“ More is the pity that 1 have not made a better use of my 
money. You are to be envied, girls, in having the fortunes of gen- 
tlewomen, and in having no more. I do believe it is better for our 
sex barely to be independent in their respective stations, and not to 
'be rendered rich. Man or woman, money is a dangerous thing, 
when we come to consider it as a part of our natural existence; for 
it tempts us to fancy that money’s worth gives rights that nature 
and reason both deny. 1 believe 1 should have been much happier, 
were 1 much poorer than 1 am.” 

“ But those who are rich are not very likely to rob!” 

“ Certainly not, in the sense that you mean, my dear. Send 
Marie Moulin on some errand, Anna; I wish to tell you and Sarah 
what l think of this fire, and of the deaths for which 1 am now on 
trial.” 

Anna complied; and the handsome prisoner, first looking cau- 
tiously around to make certain she was not overheard, proceeded 
with her opinion. 

‘ In the first place, 1 make no doubt Doctor McBrain is right, 
and that both the skeletons are those of women. The German 
woman got to be very intimate with Mrs. Goodwin ; and as the latter, 
and her husband quarreled daily, and fiercely, I think it probable 
tbat she took this woman into her bed, where they perished together. 

I should think the fire purely accidental, were it not for the missing 
stocking.” 

V That is just what the district attorney said, ” cried Anna, in- 
nocently. ” Who, then, can have set the house on fire?” 

Mary Monson muttered to herself: and she smiled as if some 
queer fancies crowded her brain: but no one was the wiser for her 
ruminations. These she kept to herself, and continued: 


THE W A.Y S OF THE HOUR. 267 

“Yes, that missing stocking renders the arson probable. The- 
question is, who did the deed; 1, or Mrs. Burton?” 

“Mrs. Burton!' ’exclaimed both the girls in a breath. “Why, 
her character is excellent — no one has ever suspected her! You 
can not suppose that she is the guilty person!” 

“It is she, or it is 1; which, 1 will leave you to judge. I was 
aware that the notch was in the coin; for l was about to give the 
other piece to Mrs. Goodwin, but preferred to keep the perfect 
specimen myself. The notched piece must have been in the stock* 
ing until after the fire; and it was changed by some one while my 
purse was under examination.” 

“ And you suppose that Mrs. Burton did it?” 

“ I confess to a suspicion to that effect. Who else could or would 
have done it? 1 have mentioned Ibis distrust to Mr. Dunscomb, 
and he cross-examined in reference to this fact; though nothing 
very satisfactory was extracted. After my acquittal, steps will be 
taken to push the inquiry further.” 

Mary Monson continued discussing this subject for quite an hour;, 
her wondering companions putting questions. At the end of that 
time Mr. Gott appeared to say that the jury had come into court; 
and that it was his duty to take the prisoner there to meet them. 

Perhaps Mary Monson never looked more lovely than at that 
moment. She had dressed herself with great simplicity, but with 
exceeding care; excilement gave her the richest color; hope, even 
delight, was glowing in her eyes; and her whole form was expand- 
ing with the sentiment of triumph. There is no feeling more gen- 
eral than sympathy witli success. After the judge’s charge, few 
doubted of the result; and on every side, as she walked with a light 
firm step to her chair, the prisoner read kindness, sympathy, and 
exultation. After all that had been said, and all the prejudices 
that had been awakened, Mary Monson was about to be acquitted t 
Even the reporters became a little humanized; had juster percep- 
tions than common of the rights of their fellow-creatures; and a 
more smiling, benignant assembly was never collected in that hall. 
In a few minutes silence was obtained, and the jurors were called. 
Every man answered to his name, when the profound stillness of 
expectation pervaded the place. 

“ Stand up, Mary Monson, and listen to the verdict,” said the 
clerk, not without a little tremor in his voice. “ Gentlemen, what 
do you say — is the prisoner guilty or not guilty?” 

The foreman arose, stroked down a few scattering gray hairs,, 
then, in a voice barely audible, he pronounced the portentous word 
“ Guilty.” Had a bomb suddenly exploded in the room it could 
not have produced greater astonishment, and scarcely more conster- 
nation. Anna Updyke darted forward, and, as with a single bound,. 
Mary Monson was folded in her arms. 

“ No, no!” cried this warm-hearted girl, totally unconscious of 
the impropriety of her acts; “ she is not guilty. You do not know 
her. 1 do. She was my school-mamma. She is a lady, incapable 
of being guilty of such crimes. No, no, gentlemen, you will think 
better of this, and alter your verdict — perhaps it was a mistake, and 
you meant to say, ‘ Hot guilty!’ ” 


THE WAYS OE THE HOUK. 


26 a 

“Who is this young lady?” asked the judge, in a tremulous 
voice— V a relative of the prisoner’s.” 

“No, sir,” answered the excited girl, “no relative, but a very 
close friend. She was my 4 school-mamma ’ once, and I know she 
is not a person to rob, and murder, and set fire to houses. Her 
birth, education, character, all place her above it. You will think 
better of this, gentlemen, and change your verdict. Now, go at 
once and doit, or you may distress her!” 

“Does anyone know who this young lady is?” demanded his 
honor, his voice growing more and more tremulous. 

“ 1 am Anna Updyke— Doctor McBrain’s daughter, now, and 
uncle Tom’s niece,” answered Anna, scarce knowing what she said. 
“ But never mind me — it is Mary Monson, here, who has been tried, 
and who has so wrongfully been found guilty. She never com- 
mitted these crimes, 1 tell you sir — is incapable of committing 
them — had no motive for committing them; and 1 beg you will put 
a stop to these proceedings, before they get so far as to make it 
difficult to recede. Just tell the jury to alter their verdict. No, 
no, Mary Monson is no' murderess! She would no more hurt the 
Goodwins, or touch a particle of their gold, than either of us all. 
You do not know her, sir. If you did you would smile at this 
mistake of the jury, for it is all a cruel mistake. Now do, my dear 
sir, send them away, again, and tell them to be more reasonable.” 

“ The young lady had better be removed,” interposed the judge, 
wiping his eyes. “ Such scenes may be natural, and the court looks 
on them leniently; but time is precious, and my duty reuders it 
necessary to interpose my authority to maintain the order of our 
proceedings. Let some of the ladies remove the young lady; she is 
too delicate for the touch of a constable — but time is precious.” 

The judge was not precisely conscious, himself, of what, he was 
saying, though he knew the general drift of his remarks. The proc- 
ess of blovving his nose interrupted his speech, more tliaD once, 
and Anna was removed by the assistance, of Marie Moulin, Sarah 
Wilmeter, and good Mrs. Gott; the latter sobbing like a child, while 
the other two scarce realized the consequences of the momentous 
word that had just been pronounced. Dunscomb took care that 
the whole group should quit the building, and be removed to the 
tavern. 

If the bar, and the spectators in general, had been surprised at 
the calmness of exterior maintained by the prisoner, previously to 
the verdict, their wonder was sensibly increased by the manner 
which succeeded it. Mary Monson’s beauty shone with increasing 
radiance as the justice of her country seemed to threaten her ex- 
istence more and more; andal the particular moment when she was 
left alone, by the withdrawal of her female companions, many 
present fancied that she had increased in stature. Certainly, it was 
a rare sight to observe the illuminated countenance, the erect mien, 
and the offended air, with which one of the weaker sex, and one so 
youthful and charming, met a doom so terrible. Of the jury she 
took no notice. Her eye was on the judge, who was endeavoring to 
muster sufficient fortitude to pronounce the finaL decision of the 
law. , 

“ Before the court pronounces sentence, Mr. Dunscomb,” ob- 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


2CJ 

served that functionary, “ it will cheerfully hear anything you may 
have to offer in behalf of the prisoner, or it will hear the prisoner 
herself. It is better, on every account, that all my painful duties 
he discharged at once, in order that the prisoner may turn her atten- 
tion to the only two sources of mercy that now remain open to her 
— the earthly and the heavenly. My duty, as you well know, can- 
not now be avoided; and the sooner it is performed, perhaps, the 
better for all concerned. It shall be my care to see that the con- 
demned has time to make all her appeals, let them be to the author- 
ities here, or to the more dreaded Power above.” 

4 ‘ l am taken so much by surprise, your honor, at a verdict that, 
to say the least, is given on very doubtful testimony, that I hardly 
know what to urge. As the court, however, is disposed to indul- 
gence, and there will be lime to look at the law of the case, as well 
as to address our petitions and affidavits to the authority at Albany, 
1 shallinteipose no objection; and, as your honor well remarks, 
since the painful duty must be discharged, it were better, perhaps, 
that it were discharged now.” 

“ Prisoner at the bar,” resumed the judge, “ you have heard the 
finding of the jury, in your case. A verdict of 4 guilty ’ lias been 
rendered, and it has become my painful duty to pronounce the 
awful sentence of the law. If you have anything to say previously 
to this, the last and -most painful of all my duties, the court will 
give your words a kind and lenient hearing.” 

In the midst of a stillness that seemed supernatural, the sweet,* 
melodious voice of Mary Monson was heard, ‘‘ first gentle, almost 
inaudible,” but gathering strength as she proceeded, until it became 
clear, distinct, and silvery. There are tew things that impart a 
higher charm than the voice; and the extraordinary prisoner pos- 
sessed an organ which, while it was feminine and sweet, had a 
depth and richness that at once denoted hei power in song. On the 
present occasion it was not even tremulous. 

”1 believe 1 understand you, sir,” Mary Monson commenced. 

4 ‘ 1 have been tried and found guilty of having murdered Peter arid 
Dorothy Goodw in, after having robbed them, and then of setting 
fire to the house.” 

“ You have been tried for the murder of Peter Goodwin, only, 
the indictments for the second murder, and for the arson, not having 
yet been tried. The court has been obliged to separate the cases, 
lest the law be defeated on mere technicalities. This verdict ren- 
ders further proceedings unnecessary, and the two remaining in- 
dictments will probably never be traversed.” 

“ 1 believe 1 still understand you, sir; and I thank you sincerely 
for the kind manner in which you have communicated these facts, 
as well as for the consideration and gentleness you have manifested 
throughout these proceedings. It has been very kind in you, sir; 
and whatever may come of this, God will remember and reward 
you for it.” 

“ The court will hear you, Mary Monson, if you have anything 
to say, before sentence be passed.” 

“ Perhaps 1 might say and do much to affect your decision, sir,” 
returned the prisoner, leaning her fair prow, for a moment, on her 
hand, “ but there would be little satisfaction ip it. It was my wish 


270 TB^E WAYS OF THE HOUR. 

to be acquitted on the testimony of the State. 1 did hope that thiar 
jury would not have seen the proofs of guilt, in the evidence thaS 
has been brought against me; and 1 confess there would be very 
littld satisfaction to me in any other acquittal. As 1 understand the 
case, should 1 be acquitted as respects Peter Goodwin, I must still 
be tried as respects his wife; and lastly, for setting fire to the- 
house.” 

“ You are not acquitted of the murder of Peter Goodwin, " mildly 
interposed the judge; “ the finding of the court has been just to the 
contrary.” 

“ 1 am a^are of this, sir. America has many enemies. I have 
lived in foreign lands, and know this from near and long observa- 
tion. There are those, and those, too, who are in power, that 
would gladly see the great example in prosperity, peace and order,, 
that this country has hitherto given to the world, beaten dowmby 
our own vices, and the mistaken uses to which the people put the 
blessings or Divine Providence. I do not reverence the justice of 
my country, as I did: it is impossible that 1 should do so. 1 now 
see plainly that its agents are not all of the character they should 
be; and that, so far from Justice’s being blind through her impar- 
tiality alone, she is also blind through her ignorance. Why am 1 
found guilty of this act? On what evidence — or even on what prob- 
ability? The whole of the proof is connected with that piece of 
money. Mrs. Burton has testified that Mrs. Goodwin, herself, ad- 
mitted that 1 had given her that coin— just what 1 told the coroner, 
and which 1 then saw was not believed, for it has been my misfort- 
une to be tried by strangers. Will these gentlemen ask themselves 
why I have committed the crime of which they have found me 
guilty? It could not be for money; as of that 1 have, of my own, 
more than 1 want, more, perhaps, than it is good for me to be mis- 
tress of.” 

“ Why have not these facts been shown to the jury, at the proper 
time and in the proper manner, if true?” demanded the judge, 
kindly. “ They are material, and might have influenced the ver- 
dict.” 

The jury was discharged, but not one of them all had left the 
box. One or two of them now arose, and looks of doubt and in- 
decision began to flicker over their countenances. They had been 
influenced by one man, a friend and political confidant of Williams, 
who had led the undecided to his own opinions. We do not mean 
to say that this man was perjured, or that he was himself 'conscious 
of the extent of the wrong lie was doing; but his mind had been 
perverted by the serpent-like report, and he had tried the cause un- 
der the influence of rumors, which had no foundation in truth. 
The case was one of honest doubt, as no one will deny; but instead 
of giving the accused the benefit of this doubt, as by law and in 
reason he was bound to do, he had taken a bias altogether from out- 
side influences, and that bias he communicaied to others, until by 
tlie'sheer force of numbers, the few who wavered were driven into 
a coiner, and soon capitulated. Then, there w r as a morbid satisfac- 
tion in the minds of several of the jurors, in running counter to 
the charge of the judge. This was a species of independence that 
is grateful to some men, and they are guided by their vanity, when 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


271 

piey fancy they are only led by conscience. These malign influ- 
ences were unknown to themselves; for not one ot the twelve was 
absolutely corrupt, but neither of them all was qualified by nature, 
or education, to be a judge, treed from tfle influence of the bench, 
in a case affecting a human life. 

Any one in the least observant of what is going on around him, 
must have had many opportunities of perceiving lioW strangely 
juries render their verdicts, and how much the last appear to be op- 
posed to the inferences ot the lookfr-on, as well as to the expressed 
opinions of the courts. The falling off in the power of the judges 
oyer the minds of the jurors, we suppose to be derived from a com- 
bination of causes. Tne tendency ot the times is to make men con- 
fident in their own judgments, and to defer less than formerly to 
knowledge and experience. Seeng this very general trait, the 
judges themselves defer to the tendency, manifest less confidence in 
their station and knowledge and perhaps really feel it; while the 
unceasing cry of the infallibility of the common mind, induces the 
vulgar, or average intellect, to shrink from any collision with that 
which wears the semblance, even though simulated, of the. popular 
will. In this way is the institution of the jury gradually getting to 
be perverted, rendering thal which ^s safe as an human tribunal can 
well be, when under the guidance ot the- court, as dangerous as 
Ignorance, party, self-will and obstinacy can well make it. 

“1 do not know,” resumed Mary Monson, ‘‘that oDe is yet 
obliged, in America, to lay open her account-books, and show her 
rent-roll, or her bonds and mortgages, in order to avoid the gallows. 
1 have been told that crime must be-brought home by unanswerable 
proof, in order to convict. VP ho can say that such has been adduced 
in my case? It has not even been made certain that a man was 
killed, at all. Most respectable witnesses have testified that they 
believe those revolting remains ot poor humanity, belonged once to 
-women. Nor has it been shown that any one has been murdered. 
The fire may have been accidental, the deaths a simple consequence 
of the tire, and no one guilty.” 

‘‘You forget, Mary Monson,” interposed the judge, mildly, 
'‘ that the robbery, and the piece of money found in your purse, 
give a color to the supposition of crime. The jury have doubtless 
been influenced by these facts, and important facts they are. No 
one can deny this; and I think you overlook that feature of your 
case. It, however, your counsel has any good reason to offer why 
sentence should not now be pronounced, the court will hear it. 
There is no impatience on the part ot justice, which would much 
rather draw in than stretch forth its arm. Perhaps, Mary Monson., 
you might do well to leave to your counsel the objections you wish 
to urge, and let them be presented to us in a form that w e can rec- 
ognize.” 

“ I see no great use in deferring the sentence,” Dunscomb re- 
marked, quietly enough for the circumstances. “It must be pro- 
nounced; and any question of law, should one occur to my mind, 
though 1 confess none does at present, can as well be laised after 
this ceremony as before.” 

‘‘lam disposed to wait, if a good reason can be urged for the 
delay. 1 will acknowledge that the case is one involved in a great 


272 THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 

deal of doubt and uncertainty, and am much inclined to do all the 
law will sanction. Still, 1 leave you to decide on your own course. 

“ In my judgment, may it please your honor, we shall have to go 
to the executive, and it were, perhaps, better to get all the most re- 
volting parts of the case over, while the accused—” 

“ Convicted, Mr. Dunscomb— it is a distinction painful to make, 
but one that can not now be avoided/’ 

“ 1 beg pardon of the court— convicted. ” 

“Yes,” said Mary Monson, solemnly, “I am convicted, and of 
the revolting crime of murder. All my hopes of a triumphant ac- 
quittal are blasted; and, whatever may be the termination of this 
extraordinary affair, a dark spot will always rest on my name. Sir, 
1 am as innocent of this crime as the youngest child in your county. 
1 may have been willful, perverse, ill-judging, unwise, and have a 
hundred other failings; but neither Peler nor Dorothy Goodwin did 
1 ever harm. 1 had not been long in the house before 1 discovered 
that the old couple were not happy together. They quarreled often, 
and bitterly. The wife was managing, dictatorial, and sordidly 
covetous, while he used every shilling he could obtain,, for the pur- 
chase of liquors. His mind was affected by his debauches, and he- 
driveled. In this state, became to me for sympathy and advice. 
Th6re were passages in my own past life, short as it has been, which, 
disposed me to feel for one who was not happy in the married state. 
It is no matter what my own experience has been; I had sympathy 
for that poor man. So far from wishing to do him harm, I desired 
to do him good. 1 advised him to quit the house, and live apart 
from his wife, for a time, at least; and this he consented to do, if I 
would furnish him with the means. Those means 1 promised; and, 
that he might not sutler, being of only feeble intellect, and in order 
to keep him from liquor, 1 had directed two of my agents to come 
to the house early in the morning of the very day that the fire hap- 
pened, that they might convey Peter Goodwin to another residence^ 
where he would be secret and safe, until his wife might repent of 
her treatment of him. It was fortunate for me that I had done this. 
Those two men, servants of ray own, in the dress of countrymen, 
were the instruments of saving my life; without their aid, 1 should 
have perished in the flames. What they did, and how they did it, 
it would be premature now to say. Alas! alas! 1 have not been ac- 
quitted as I desired to be, and a dark shadow will forever rest on 
my name!” 

For the first time, a doubt of the sanity of the prisoner, crossed 
the mind of the judge. It was not, so much the incoherence of her 
language, as her eye, the flushed cheek, and a certain air of stealthy 
cunning, that awakened this distrust. Nevertheless, Mary Mon- 
son’s manner was sincere, her language chosen and perfectly proper, 
and her explanations not without their force. There was something 
so strange, however, in a portion of her statements; so irreconcil- 
able with a sound discretion, that, taken with the little which had 
come to light concerning this singular woman’s past life, the doubt 
arose. 

“ Perhaps it were better, Mr. District Attorney,” the judge ob- 
served, “it we delay the sentence.” 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 27# 

“ As your honor may think fit. The State is not over-anxious for 
life.” 

“ ’What say you, Mr. Dunscomb— shall there be delay, or shall I 
sentence?” 

“As the sentence must come, the sooner it is over, the better. 
We have no ground on which to carry up the case, the jury being 
judges df the facts. Our principal hope must be in the discretion, 
of the governor.” 

“Mary Monson,” continued the judge, evidently treating the 
affair as purely a matter of form, “ } T ou have been tried for 
feloniously depriving Peter Goodwin of his life — ” 

“ 1 never did it,” interrupted the prisoner, in a voice so low as- 
to be melodious, yet so clear as to be audible as the sound of a 
clarion. “ These men have been influenced by the rumors they 
have heard, and were not fit to act as my judges. Men should 
have minds superior tp mere reports, to sit in that box.” 

“ My duty is to pronounce the sentence of the law. After a fair 
trial, and, so tar as it appears to us, by an impartial jury, you have 
been found guilty. For reasons that are of. sufficient weight to my 
mind, I shall not dwell on the character of ihe awful change yon 
will have to undergo, should this decree be put in force, but confine 
myself simply to the duty of pronouncing the sentence of the law, 
which is this: that you be carried back to the jail, and there be 
guarded, until Friday, the sixth day of September next, when be- 
tween tile hours of twelve and two, p.m., you be carried to the 
place of execution, and hanged by the neck, until you are dead — 
and God have mercy on your soul!” 

A shudder passed through the audience, at hearing language like 
this applied to a person of Mary Monson ’s appearance, education 
and sex. This feeling might, have manifested itself more strongly, 
had not Mrs. Horton attracted attention to herself, by forcing her 
way through the crowd, until she stood within the bar. Here the 
good woman, accustomed to bandy words with her guests, did not- 
scruple to make her presence known to the court, by calling out — 

“ They tell me, your honor, that Mary Monson has just been 
found guilty of the murder of Peter Goodwin?” 

“ It is so, my good woman — but that case is ended. Mr. Sheriff, 
remove the prisoner— time is precious — ” 

“Yes, your honor, and so is eternity. Mary Monson is no 
more guilty of taking the life of Peter Goodwin than 1 am guilty. 
I’ve always said some great disgrace would befall our juries, one ot 
these days, and now my prophecy will come true. Dukes is dis- 
graced. Constable, let that poor man come within the bar.” 

The driveling creature who entered the room of McBrain tottered 
forward, when twenty voices cried aloud Ihe name of “ Peter Good- 
win.” Every word that Mary Monson had stated was true! 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUB. 


m 


CHAPTER XXY111. 

Now Marcia, now call up to thy assistance, 

Thy wonted strength and constancy of mind; 

Thou can'st not put it to a greater trial. 

Addison. 

Bench, bar, jury, witnesses and audience, were all astounded. 
The trial had been cairied on in the most perfect good faith; and 
not. a human being but the few who had felt the force of McBrain’s 
testimony, doubted of the death ot the individual who now appeared 
alive, if not well, in open court. The reader can better imagine 
than we can describe, the effects of a resurrection so entirely un- 
expected. 

When the confusion naturally produced by such a scene had a lit 
tie subsided; when . all had actually seen, and many had actually 
felt, the supposed murdered man, as if to assure themselves of his 
being really in the flesh, order was restored; and the court and bar 
began to reflect on the course next to be pursued. 

“ I suppose, Mr. District Attorney,” obseived his honor, “ there 
is no mistake in the person of this individual; but it were better if 
we had an affidavit or two. W ill you walk this way* sir?” 

A long, private conference, now took place between the public 
prosecutor and the judge. Each expressed his astonishment at the 
Tesult, as well as some indignation at the deception which had been 
practiced on the court. This indignation was a little mollified by 
the impression, now common to both, that Mary Monson was a per- 
son not exactly in her right mind. There was so much deception 
practiced among persons accused of crimes, however, and in con- 
nection with this natural infirmity, that public functionaries like 
themselves were necessarily very cautious in admitting the plea. The 
most offensive part of the whole affair was the discredit brought on 
the justice of Dukes! It was not in nature for these individuals to 
be insensible to the sort of disgrace the reappearance of Peter Good- 
win entailed on the county and circuit; and there' was a very nat- 
ural desire to wipe off the stain. The conference lasted until the 
affidavits to establish the facts connected with Goodwin’s case were 
Teady. 

” Had these affidavits been presented earlier,” said his honor, as 
.soon as the papers were read, ” sentence would not have been pro- 
nounced. The case is novel, and 1 shall want a little time to reflect 
on the course 1 am to take. The sentence must be gotten rid of by 
some means or other; and it shall be my care to see it done. 1 hope, 
brother Dunscomb, the counsel for the accused have not been par- 
ties to this deception?” 

“ I am as much taken by surprise as your honor can possibly be.” 
returned the party addressed, with earnestness, “ not having had the 
most remote suspicion of the existence of the man said to have been 
murdered; else would all the iate proceedings have been spared. 
As to the course to be taken next, 1 would respectfully suggest that 


THE AY AYS OF THE HOUIt. 275 

the Code be examined. It is an omnium gaVierum ; and must con- 
tain something to tell us how to undo all we have done.” 

” It were better for all parties had there so been. There are still 
two indictments pending over Mary Monson; one for the arson, and 
the other lor the murder of Dorothy Goodwin. Mr. District At- 
torney feels the necessity of irying these cases, or one of thefn at 
least, in vindication of the justice of the State and county; and 1 am 
inclined to think that, under all the circumstances, this course 
should be taken. 1 trust we shall have no more surprises, and that 
Dorothy Goodwin will be brought forward at once, if still living- 
time is precious.” 

“ Dorothy Goodwin is dead,” said Mary Monson, solemnly. 
‘‘Poor 'woman! she was called away suddenly, and in her sins u 
Little fear of her ever coming here to flout your justice.” 

“ It may be well to caution your client, Mr. Dunscomb, against 
hasty and indiscreet admissions. Let the accused be arraigned, and 
a jurv be impaneled. Which case do you choose to move on, Mr. 
District Attorney?” 

Dunscomb saw that his honor was offended, and much in earnest. 
He was offended himself, and half disposed to throw up his brief;; 
but he felt for the situation of a lovely and defenseless woman. Then 
his doubts touching his client’s sanity began to take the character of 
certainty; and he saw how odious it would be to abandon one so- 
afflicted in her emergency, fie hinted his suspicion to the court; 
but was told that the fact, under all the circumstances of the case., 
was one properly for the jury. After reflection, the advocate de- 
termined not to desert his trust. 

We pass over the preliminary proceedings. ’ A jury was impan- 
eled with very little difficulty; not a challenge having been made. 
It was composed, in part, of those who had been in the box on the 
late occasion; and, in part, of new men. There was an air of ear- 
nestness and business about them all, that Timms did npt like; but it 
was too late to raise objections. To own the truth, the senior coun- 
sel cared much less than before for the result ; feeling satisfied that 
his contemplated application at Albany would meet with considera- 
tion. It is true, Mary Monson was no anti-renter. She could not 
come forward with her demand for mercy with hands dyed in the 
blood of an officer of that public which lives under the deception of 
fancying it rules the land ; murderers who added to their crimes the 
hateful and pestilent fraud of attempting to cloak robbery in the 
garb of righteous liberty; nor could she come sustained by numbers 
around the ballot-box, and bully the executive into acts which the 
reason and conscience of every nonest man condemn ; but Duns- 
comb believed that she might come with the plea of a being visited 
by the power of her Creator, in constituting her as she was, a woman 
not morally accountable for her acts. 

All the leading facts, as shown on the former trial, were shown 
on this. When the country practitioners were called on to give 
their opinions concerning the effect of the blow, they necessarily be- 
came subject to the cross-examination of the counsel for the pris- 
oner, who did not spare them. 

“ Were you examined, sir, "in the late trial of Mary Monson, lor 


■ THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


•276 

the murder of Peter Goodwin?” demanded Dunscomb of the first of 
these modern Galens who was put on tlie stand. 

“ 1 was, sir.” 

“ What did you say on that occasion” — looking at his notes of the 
other trial — “ touching the sex of the persons to whom those skele- 
tons were thought to have belonged?” 

“ 1 said I believed — not knew, but believed , they were the remains of 
Peter and Dorothy Goodwin. ’ ’ 

“ Did you not use stronger language than that?” 

“ Not that I remember. 1 may have done so; but 1 do not re- 
member it.” 

“ Did you not say you had ‘ no doubt ’ that those were the remains 
of Peter and Dorothy Goodwin?” 

”1 may have said as much as that. Now you mention the 
words, 1 believe 1 did.” 

‘‘ Do you think so now?” 

“ Certainly not. 1 can not think so, after what 1 have seen.” 

“ Do you know Peter Goodwin, personally ?” 

“ Very well. 1 have practiced many years in this neighborhood.” 

“ Whom, then, do you say that this unfortunate man here, whom 
we see alive, though a driveler, really is?” 

‘‘Peter Goodwin— he who was thought to have been murdered. 
•We are all liable to mistakes.” 

“You have testified in chief that, in your judgment, the two per- 
sons, of whom we have the remains here in court, were stunned at 
least, if not absolutely killed, by the blow that you think fractured 
each of their skulls. Now, 1 would ask if you think the prisoner 
at the bar possesses the physical force necessary to enable her to 
strike such a blow?” 

“ That would depend on the instrument she used. A human 
skull may be fractured easily enough, by a moderate blow struck 
"by a heavy instrument.” 

“ iVhat soft of instrument, for instance?” 

“ A sword— a bar of iron— or anything^that has weight and force.” 

“ Do you believe those fractures were given by the same blow?” 

1 do. By one and the same blow.” 

“ Do you think Mary Monson possesses the strength necessary to 
cause those two fractures at a single blow?” 

Witness had no opinion on the subject. 

” Are the fractures material 0 ” 

V Certainly— and must have required a heavy blow to produce? 
them.” 

This was all that could be got from either of the witnesses on that 
material point. As respected McBrain, he was subsequently exam, 
ined in reference to the same facts. Dunscomb made good use of 
this witness, who now commanded the respect of all present. In 
the first place, he was adroitly offered to the jury, as the professional 
man who had, from the first, given it as his opinion that both the 
skeletons were those of females; and this in the face of all the col- 
lected wisdom of Dukes County; an opinion that was now rendered 
so probable as almost to amount to certainty. lie (Dunscomb) be- 
lieved most firmly that the remains were those of Dorothy Goodwin 
•and the German woman who was missing. 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUE. 277 

“ Have you examined th$se skeletons, Doctor McBrain?” Duns- 
comb asked. 

“ 1 have, sir; and carefully, since the late trial.” 

“ How do you think the persons to whom they belonged came to 
their deaths?” 

“ I find fractures in the skulls of both. If they lie now as they 
did when the remains were found (a fact that had been proved by- 
several witnesses), I am of opinion that a single blow inflicted the 
injuries on both; it may be, that blow was not sufficient to produce * 
death; but it must have produced a stupor, or insensibility, which 
would prevent the parties from seeking refuge against the effects of 
the flames — ” 

” Is the learned witness brought tosum upthecause?” demanded 
■Williams, with one of those demoniacal sneers of his, by means of 
which he sometimes carried off a verdict “ 1 wish to know, that I 
may take notes of the course of his argument.” 

McBrain drew back, shocked and offended. He was naturally 
diffident, as his friend used to admit, in everything but wives; and 
as regarded them “ he had the impudence of the devil. Ned would 
never give up the trade until he had married a dozen, if the law 
would see him out in it. He ought to have been a follower of the 
great Mohammed, who made it a point to take a new wife at almost 
every new moon!” The judge did not like this sneer of 'Williams.; 
and this so much the less, because, in common with all around him, 
he had imbibed a profound respect for the knowledge of the witness. 

It is true, he was very much afraid of the man, and dreaded his in- 
fluence at the polls; but he really had too much conscience to sub- 
mit to everything. A judge may yet have a conscience— if the Code 
will let him. 

“ This is very irregular, Mr. Williams, not to say improper,” his 
honor mildly remarked. “The witness has said no more than he 
has a right to say; and the court must see him protected. Proceed 
with your testimony, sir.” 

“ I have little more to say, if it please the court,” resumed Mc- 
Brain too much dashed to regain his self-possession, in a moment. 
As this was all "Williams wanted, he permitted him to proceed in 
his own way ; and all the doctor had to say was soon told to the jury. 
The counsel for the prosecution manifested great tact in not cross- 
examining the witness at all. In a subsequent stage of the trial, 
Williams had the impudence to insinuate to the jury that they did 
not not attach sufficient importance to his testimony, to subject him 
to this very customary ordeal. 

But the turning point of this trial, as it had been that of the case 
which preceded it, was the evidence connected with the piece of 
money. As the existence of the notch was now generally knowm, 
it was easy enough to recognize the coin that had been found in 
Mary Monson’s purse; thus depriving the accused of one of her 
simplest and best means of demonstrating the ignorance of the wit- 
nesses. The notch, however, was Mrs. Burton’s great mark, under 
favor of which her very material testimony was now given as it had 
been before. 

Dunscomb was on the point of commencing the cross-exam ina- 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


2 78 

tion, when the clear melodious voice of Mary Monson herself was 
heard for the first time since the commencement of the trial. 

“ Is it permitted to me to question this witness?” demanded the 
prisoner. 

“ Certainly,” answered the judge. “ It is the right of every one 
who is arraigned by the counl ry. Ask any question that you please.” 

This was a somewhat libeial decision as to the right of cross- 
examining and the accused put on it a construction almost as broad 
as the privilege. . As for the witness, it was very apparent she had 
little taste for the scrutiny that she probably foresaw she was about to 
undergo; and her countenance, attitude, and answers, each and all 
betrayed how much distaste she had for the whole procedure. As- 
permission was obtained, however, the prisoner did not hesitate to 
proceed. 

Mrs. Burton,” said Mary Monson, adopting, as well as she knew 
how, ihe manner of the gentlemen of the bar, ‘‘ 1 wish you to tell 
the court and jury when you first saw the notched piece of money?” 

‘‘When 1 first saw it? I saw it first, when Aunt Dolly first 
showed it to me,” answered the witness. 

Most persons would have been dissatisfied with this answer, and 
would probably have caused the question to be repeated in* sonio 
other form; but Mary Mon&on seemed content, and went on putting: 
her questions, just as if she had obtained answers to meet her views. 

‘‘ Did you examine it well?” 

“ As well as 1 desired to. There was nothing to prevent it.” 

' ‘ Did you know it immediately, on seeing it in my purse?” 

“ Certainly— as soon as 1 saw the notch.” 

** Did Mrs. Goodwin point out the notch to you, or did you point 
out the notch to her?” 

** She pointed it out to me; she feared that the notch might lessen 
the value of the coin.” 

“ All this 1 have heard before; but 1 now ask you, Mrs. Burton, 
in the name of that Being whose eye is everywhere, did you not 
yourself put that piece of money in my purse, when it was passing 
from hand to hand, and take out of it the piece without a notch?' 
Answer me, as you have a regard for yofir soul?” 

Such a question was altogether out of the rules regulating the 
queries that may be put to witnesses, an answer in the affirmative 
going directly to criminate the respondent; but the earnest manner, 
solemn tones, and, we may add, illuminated countenance of Mary 
Monson, so far imposed on the woman, that she quite lost sight of 
her rights, it she ever knew them. What is much more remarkable,, 
neither of the counsel for the prosecution interposed an objection. 
The district attorney was willing that justice should have its wav; 
and Williams began to think it might be prudent to manifest less 
anxiety for a conviction than he had done in the case in which the 
party murdered had been resuscitated. The judge was entranced 
by the prisoner’s manner. 

” 1 believe 1 have as much regard for my soul as any of the neigh- 
bors have for theirs,” answered Mrs. Burton, sullenly. 

‘‘Let us learn that in your reply. Did you, or did you not* 
change those pieces of gold?” 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 279 

f< Perhaps I might. It’s hard to say, when so much was said and 
-fione.” 

“ How came you with the other piece, with which to make the 
exchange? Answer, Sarah Burton, as you fear God?” 

The witness trembled like an aspen-leaf. So remarkable was the 
scene, that no one thought of interfering; but the judge, the bar, 
and the jury, seemed equally willing to leave the two females to 
themselves, as the most efficient means of extorting the truth. Mary 
Monson’s color heightened; her mien and countenance grew, as it 
were, with the occasion; while Sarah Burton’s became paler and 
paler, as each question was put, and the reply pressed. 

“ 1 can have money, 1 hope, as well as other folks,” answered the 
witness. 

“ That is no reply. How came you with the piece of gold that is 
notched, that you could exchange it for the piece which was not 
notched, and which was the one really found in my purse? Au- 
swer me that, Sarah Burton; here, where we both stand in the pres- 
ence of our great Creator?” 

“ There’s no need of your pressing a body so awfully — 1 don’t be- 
lieve it’s law.” 

*‘ 1 repeat the question — or I will answer it for you. When you 
fired the house—” 

The woman screamed, and raised her hands in natural horror. . 

“ I never set the house on fire,” she cried. “ It took from the 
stove-pipe in the garret, where it had taken twice before.” 

“ How can you know that, unless you saw it? How see it, -unless 
present?” 

“ 1 was not there, and did not see it; but 1 know the garret had 
caught twice before from that cook-stove-pipe. Aunt Dolly was 
very wrong to neglect it as she did.” 

“ And the blows on* the head— who struck those blows, Sarah 
Burton?” 

“ How can 1 tell? I wasn’t there— no one but a fool could be- 
lieve'you have strength to do it.” 

‘ How then, was it done? Speak— I see it in your mind?” 

“ 1 saw the plowshare lying on the heads of the skeletons; and 
I saw Moses Steen throw it off, in the confusion of first raking the 
embers. Moses will be likely to remember it, if sent tor,' and 
questioned.” 

Here was a most important fact elicited under the impulse of self- 
justification; and a corresponding expression of surprise passed in 
a murmur, through the audience. The eye of Mary Monson kindled 
with tiiumph; and she continued with renewed powers of command 
over the will and conscience ol the witness. 

“ This is well, Sarah Burton— it is right, and what you ought to 
say. Y ou think that the fire was accidental, and that the fractured 
skulls came from the fall of the plow?” 

“ I do. 1 know that the plow stood in the garret, directly over 
the bed, and the stove-pipe passed quite neai it. There was an 
elbow in that pipe, and the danger was at that elbow.” 

£ ‘ This is well; and the eye above looks on you with less dis- 
pleasure Sarah Burton”— as this was said, the witness turned her 
looks timidly upward, as if to assure herself of the fact. “ Speak 


280 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


holy truth, and it will soon become benignant and forgiving. Now 
tell me how you came by the stocking and its contents?” 

“ The stocking!” said the witness, starting, and turning white as 
a sheet. “ Who says 1 took the stocking?” 

“ 1 do. 1 know it by that secret intelligence which has been given 
me to discover truth.- Spt^k, then, Sarah, and tell the court and 
jury the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” 

“ Nobody saw me take it; and nobody can say 1 took it.” 

“ Therein you are mistaken. You were . seen to take it. I saw it, 
for one; but there was another who saw it, with its motive, whose 
eye is ever on us. Speak, then, Sarah, and keep nothing back. ’ 

“ I meant no harm, if 1 did take it. There was so many folks 
about, I was afraid that some stranger might lay hands on it. That’s 
all.” 

“ Y"ou were seen to unlock the drawers, as you stood alone near 
the bureau, in the confusion and excitement of the finding of the 
skeletons. You did it stealthily, Sarah Burton.” 

“ X was afraid some one might snatch the stocking from me. X 
always meant to give it up, as soon as the law said to whom it be- 
* longs. Davis wants it, but I’m not sure it is his.” 

“ What key did you use? . Keep nothing back.” 

“ One of my own. My keys unlocked many of Aunt Dolly’s 
drawers. She knew it, and never found any fault wiih it. Why 
should she? tier keys unlocked mine /” 

“ Another word — where is that stocking, and where are its con- 
tents?” 

“ Both are safe in the third drawer of my own bureau, and here 
is the key, taking one from her bosom. “lput them therefor 
security, as no one opens that drawer but myself.” 

Timms took the key from the unresisting hand of the woman, 
and followed by Williams, Davis, and one or two more, he left the 
v court-house. At that insi ant, Sarah Burton fainted. In the con- 
fusion of removing her into another room, Mary Monson resumed 
her seat. 

“ Mr. District Attorney, it can hardly be your intention' to press 
this indictment any further?” observed the judge, wipiug his eyes, 
and much delighted with the unexpected termination of the affair. 

The functionary addressed was glad enough to be rid of his un- 
welcome office, and at once signified his willingness to enter a nolle 
prosequi, by an application to the bench, in the case of the arson, 
and to submit to an acquittal in that now being traversed. After a 
brief charge from the judge, the jury gave a verdict of acquittal, 
without leaving tne box; and just as this was done Timms and his 
conpanions returned, bringing with them the much-talked -of 
stocking. 

It required months completely to elucidate the whole affair; but 
.so much is already known, and this part of our subject being virt- 
ually disposed of, we may as well make a short summary of the 
tacts, as they were already in proof, or as they have since come to 
light. 

The fire was accidental, as has been recently ascertained by cir- 
cumstances it is unnecessary to relate. • Goodwin had left his wife* 


THE WAYS OF THE TtOUR. 


281 


the night before the accident, and she had taken the German woman 
to sleep* with her. As the garret -floor above this pair was con- 
sumed, the plow fell, its share inflicting the blow which stunned 
tjrem, if it did not inflict even a greater injury. That part of the 
house was first consumed, and the skeletons were found, as has been 
related, side by side. In the confusion of the scene, Sarah Burton 
had little difficulty in opening the drawer, and removing the stock- 
ing. She fancied her self unseen; but Mary Monson observed the 
movement, though she had then no idea what was abstracted. The 
unfortunate delinquent maintains that ber intention, at the time, was 
good ; or, that her sole object was to secure the gold ; but is obliged 
to confess that the possession of the treasure gradually excited her 
eupdity, until she began to hope that this hoard might eventually 
become her own. TThe guilty soonest suspect guilt. As to “ the 
pure, all things are pure,” so it is with the innocent, who are the 
least inclined to suspect others of wicked actions. Thus was it with 
Mrs. Burton. In the commission of a great wrong herself, she had 
little difficulty in supposing that Mary Monson was the sort of per- 
son that rumor made her out. to be. She saw no great harm, then, 
in giving a shove to the descending culprit. TV hen looking into the 
stocking, she had seen, and put in her own pocket, the notched 
piece, as a curiosity, there being nothingmore unusual in the guilty 
thus incurring unnecessary risks, than there is in the moth’s temer- 
ity in fluttering around the candle. When the purse of Mary Mon- 
son was examined, as usually happens ou such occasions, we had 
almost said as always happens, in the management of cases that are 
subsequently to form a part of the justice of the land, much less at- 
tention was'paid to the care of that purse than ought to have been 
bestowed on it. Profiting by the neglect, Sarah Burton exchanged 
the notched coin for the perfect piece, unobserved, as she again 
fancied; but once more the watchful eye of Mary Monson was on 
her. The first time the woman was observed by the last, it was 
accidentally; but suspicion once aroused, it was natural enough to 
keep a lookout on the suspected party. The act was seen, and at 
the moment that the accused thought* happy, the circumstance was 
brought to bear on the trial. Sarah Burton maintains that, at first, 
her sole intention was to exchange the imperfect for the perfect, 
coin; and that she was induced to swear to the piece subsequently 
produced, as that found on Mary Monson’s perso'n, as a literal tael, 
ignorant of what might be its consequences. Though the devil 
doubtless leads us on, step by step, deeper and deeper, into crime 
and sin, it is probable that, in this particular, the guilty woman ap- 
plied a flattering unction to her conscience, that the truth would 
have destroyed. 

Great w^as the wonder, and numberless were the paragraphs that 
this unexpected issue of the 44 great Riberry murders ” produced. 
As respects the last, anything that will fill a column is a god-send, 
and the falsehood has even a value that is, not to be found in the 
truth, as its contradiction will help along quite as much as the 
•original statements. If the public could only be brought to see what 
a different thing publicity becomes in the hands of those who turn 
it to profit, from wffiat it is thought to be by those who fancy it is 
merely a mode of circulating facts, a great step toward a much- 


,282 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


needed reformation would be taken, by confining the last within 
their natural limits. 

Mary Monson’s name passed from one end of the Union to the 
other, and thousands heard and read of this extraordinary woman, 
who never had tiie smallest clew to her real character or subsequent, 
history. How tew reflected on the defects of the system that con- 
demned her to the gallows on insufficient testimony; or, under an- 
other phase of prejudice, might have acquitted her when guilty l 
The random decisions of the juries, usually well-meaning, but so 
rarely discriminating, or as intelligent as they ought to be, attract 
very little attention beyond the bar; and even the members of that 
often strike a balance in error, with which lliev learn to be content; 
gaining in one cause as much as they lose in another. 

There was a strong disposition in the people assembled at Biberry, 
on the occasion of the trial, to make a public spectacle of Mary Mon- 
son. The right to do this, with all things in heaven and earthy 
seems to belong to “ republican simplicity,” which is beginning to 
rule the land with a rod of iron. Unfortunately for this feeling, 
the subject of momentary sympathy was not a person likely to allow 
such a license. She did not believe, because she had endured one 
set of atrocious wrongs, that she was bound to submit to as many 
more as gaping vulgarity might see fit to inflict. She sought the 
protection of good Mrs. Gott and her jail, some forms being neces- 
sary before the sentence of death could be legally gotten rid of. In 
vain were the windows again crowded, with the virtuous wish of 
seeing how Mary Monson looked, now she was acquitted, just as 
they had been previously thronged in order to ascertain how she 
looked when there was a chance of her being condemned to the gal-, 
lows. The most extraordinary part, of the affair, was the circum- 
stance that the harp became popular; the very sentiment, act, or 
thing that, in one condition of the common mind, is about to be 
“cut down and cast into the fire,” becoming, in another, all that is 
noble, commendable, or desirable. The crowd about the windows 
of the jail, for the first few hours after the acquittal, was dying to 
hear the prisoner sing and play, and would gladly have tolerated 
the harp and a “ foreign tongue ” to be thus gratified. 

But Mary Monson was safe from all intrusion, under the locks of 
the delighted Mrs. Gott. This kind-hearted person kissed her 
prisonei, over and over again, when she admitted her within the 
gallery, and then she went outside, and assured several of the more 
respectable persons in the crowd how thoroughly she had been per- 
suaded, from the first, of the innocence of liei friend. The circum- 
stances of this important trial rendered Mrs. Gott a very distin- 
guished person herself, in that crowd, and never was a woman, 
happier than she while delivering her sentiments on the recent events. 

“ It’s altogether the most foolish trial we have ever had in Dukes, 
though they tell me foolish trials are getting to be only too com- 
mon,” said the kind hearted wife of the. sheriff, addressing half-a- 
dozen of the more respectable of the crowd. “ It gave me a big 
fright, 1 will own. When Gott was elected sheriff, I did hoDe-he 
would escape all executions but debt executions. The more he has 
of them, the better. It’s bad enough to escort thieves to Sing-Sing;, 
but the gallows is a poor trade for a decent man to meddle with,. 


283 - 


the' ways of the hour. 

Then, to have the very first sentence, one against Mary Monson, 
who is as much above sucli a punishment as virtue is above vice. 
When I heard those dreadful words, 1 felt as if a cord was round 
my own neck. But 1 had faith to the last; Mary has always told 
me that she should be acquitted, and here it has all come true, at 
last.” " 

“ Do you know, Mrs. Gott,” said one of her friends, “ it is re- 
ported that this woman— pr lady, 1 suppose one must now call her — 
has been in the habit of quitting the jail whenever she saw fit?” 

” Hu-s-k, neighbor Brookes; there is no need of alarming the 
county! 1 believe you are right; though it was all done without 
my knowledge, or it never would have been permitted. It only 
shows the power of money. The locks are as good as any in the 
State; yet Mary certainly did find means, unbeknown to me, to open 
them. It can’t be called breaking jail, since she always came back! 
1 had a good frighl the first time 1 heard of it, but use reconciles 
ns to all Ihings. 1 never let Gott into the secret, though lie’s re- 
sponsible, as he calls it, for all his prisoners.” 

“ Well, when a matter turns out happily, it does no good to be 
harping on it always.” 

Mrs.^Gott assented, and in this case, as in a hundred others, the 
end was made to justify the means. But Mary Monson was felt to 
be an exception to all rules, and there was no longer any disposition 
to cavil at any of her proceedings. Her innocence had been estab- 
lished so very triumphantly, that every person regarded her vagaries 
and strange conduct with indulgence. 

At that very moment, when Mrs. Gott was haranguing her neigh- 
bors at the door of the jail, Dunscomb was closeted with Michael 
Millington at the Inn; the young man having returned at hot-speed 
only as the court adjourned. He had been successful, notwith- 
standing his original disappointment, and had ascertained all about 
the hitherto mysterious prisoner of the Biberry jail. Mary Monson 
was, as Dunscomb suspected, Mildred Millington by birth— Mine, 
de Larocheforte by marriage— and she was the granddaughter of 
the very woman to whom "he had been betrothed in youth. Her 
•insanity was not distinctly recognized, perhaps could not have been 
legally established, though it was strongly suspected by many who 
knew her intimately, and was a source of great uneasiness with all 
who felt an interest in her welfare. Her marriage was unhappy, and 
it was supposed she had taken up her abode in the cottage of the 
Goodwins to avoid her husband. The command of money gave 
her a power to do very much as she pleased, and, though the breath 
of calumny had never yet blown its withering blast on her name, 
she erred in many things that are duties as grave as that of being 
chaste. The laws came in aid of her whims and caprices. There is 
no mode by which an errant wife can be made to perform her duties 
in boldly experimenting New York, though she can claim a sup- 
port and protection from her husband. The “ cup-and-saucer ” law 
comes in aid of this power, and the men who can not keep their 
wives in the chains of Hymen in virtue of the affections, may just 
as well submit, wdth a grace, to be the victims of an ill-judging and 
most treacherous regard for the rights of what are called the weaker 
sex. 


m 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUK, 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

Why wilt thou add to all the griefs I suffer, 

Imaginary ills, and fancied tortures? 

Cato. 

The scene must now be shifted to Rattletrap. Biberry was de- 
serted. Even the rumors with which its streets had been so lately 
tilled, weie already forgotten. None have memories as frail as the 
gossip. Not only does this class of persons— and a numerous class 
it is, including nearly all whose minds are not fitted to receive more 
elevated materials — not only, we say, does this class of persons over- 
look the contradictions and absurdities of the stories they repeat, but 
they forget the stories themselves almost as soon as heard. Such 
was now the case at Biberry. Scarce an individual could be found 
in the place who would acknowledge that he or she had ever heard 
that Mary Monson was counected with robbers, or who could recol- 
lect that he once fancied the accused guilty. 

We may as well say here, that nothing has ever been done with 
Sarah Burton. She is.clearly guilty; but the law, in these limes of 
progress, disdains to pursue the guilty. Their crimes are known; 
and of what use can it be to expose those whom every one can see 
are offenders? No, it is the innocent who have most reason to dread 
the law. They can be put to trouble, cost, vexation and loss, if they 
can not be exactly condemned. We see how thousands regard the 
law in a recent movement in the legislature, by which suils have 
been oidered to try the titles of most of the large landed proprietors, 
with the very honest and modest proposal annexed, that their cases 
shall be prejudged, and the landlords deprived of the means of de- 
fending themselves, by sequestering their rents! Everybody says 
this is the freest country on earth; the only country that is truly 
free; but we must be permitted to say, that such a law, like twenty 
more that have been passed in the same interest within the last ten 
years, savours a good deal of the character of a ukase. 

Our character^, with the exception of McBrain and his bride, were 
now assembled at Rattletrap. Dunscomb had ascertained all it was 
necessary to know concerning Mildred, and had taken the steps 
necessary to protect her. Of her qualified insanity he did not en- 
tertain a doubt; though it was a ma lness so concealed by the 
blandislimenls of education and the graces of a refined woman", that* 
few 7 saw it, and fewer still wished to believe it true. On most sub- 
jects this unhappy lady was clear-minded and intelligent enough, 
more especially on that of money; for, while her expenditures w T ere 
generous, and her largesses most liberal, she manifested wonderful 
sagacity in taking care of her property. It was this circumstance 
that rendered it so difficult to take any steps to deprive her of its 
control; though Dunscomb had seen enough, in the course of the 
recent trial, to satisfy him that such a measure ought to be resorted 
to in the interest of her own character. 

It was in cunning, and in all the low propensities connected with 


THE WAYS OE THE HOUR. 


28 & 

that miserable quality, that Mildred Millington, as she now insisted 
on calling herself, most betrayed her infirmity. Many instances of 
it have been incidentally related in the course of our narrative, how- 
ever unpleasant such an exhibition has been. There is nothing more- 
repugnant to the principles or tastes of the right thinking and right 
feeling, than the practices which cunning engenders. Timms, how- 
ever, was a most willing agent in all the schemes of his client; 
though some of her projects had puzzled him by their elaborate 
duplicity, as much as they had astounded him by their boldness. 

These were the schemes that had their origin in obliquity of mind. 
Still, they were not without merit in the eyes of Timms, who was 
cunning without being mad. 

Before quitting Biberry, Timms was liberally paid and dismissed. 
Dunscomb explained to him the situation of his handsome client, 
without adverting to the state of her mind, when the attorney at 
once caught at the chances of a divorce. Among the other “ ways 
of the hour,” that of dissolving the marriage tie has got to be a sort 
of fashionable mania. Neither time, nor duties, nor children, seem, 
to interpose any material obstacle; and, if our own laws do not 
afford the required facilities, those of some of our more liberal 
neighbors do. Timms keeps this principle in his mind, and is at 
this moment ruminating on the means by which he can liberate his 
late client from her present chains, and bind her anew in some of 
his own forging. It is scarcely necessary to add, that Mildred 
troubles herself very little in the premises, so far as this covert lover 
is concerned. 

The ridicule of "Williams was, at first, the sorest portion of 
Timms’s disappointment. Bachelors alike, aad rivals' for popular 
favor, these two worthies had long been looking out for advanta- 
geous marriages. Each had the sagacity to see that his chances of 
making a more and more eligible connection were increasing slowly, 
and that it was a gieat thing for a rising man to ascend without 
dragging after him a wife chosen from among those that prop the- 
base of the great social ladder. It was nuts to one of these com- 
petitors for the smiles of the ladies to discover that his rival was in 
love with a married woman; and this so much the more, because 
the prospects of Timms’s success, arising from his seeming intimacy 
with the fair occupant of the jail, had given Williams a very serious 
fright. Place two men in competition, no matter in what, and all 
their energies become concentrated in rival rv. Again and again 
had these two individuals betrayed their hi u mal jealousy; and now 
that one of them had placed himself in a position so false, not to say 
ridiculous, the other did not fail to enjoy his disappointment to the- 
top of his bent. It was in this manner that Saucy Williams took his- 
revenge for the defeat in the trial. 

31rs. Gott was also at Rattletrap. Dunscomb retained much of his 
original tenderness for Mildred, the grandmother of his guest of that 
name, and he granted her descendant every indulgence she could 
ask. Among other things, one of the requests of the liberated pris- 
oner was to be permitted to manifest this sense of her gratitude for 
the many acts of kindness received from the wife of the sheriff. 
Gott, accordingly, was left to take care of himself, while his nice 
little companion was transported to a scene that she found altogether 


586 


THE WAYS OF THE HOTJJR. 


. novel, of a temporary residence in a gentleman’s dwelling. Sarah’s 
housekeeping, Sarah’s good nature, attentions, neatness, attire and 
attractions, would have been themes to monopolize all of the good 
little woman’s admiration, had not Anna Updyke, then on a visit at 
Rattletrap, quite fairly come in for her full share. She might al- 
most be said to be in love with both. 

It was just after breakfast that Mildred locked an arm in that of 
Anna, and led her young friend by one of: the wooded paths that 
runs along the shores of the Hudson, terminating in a summer- 
house, with a most glorious view. In this, there was nothing re- 
markable; the eye rarely resting on any of the “ bits ” that adorn 
the banks of that noble stream, without taking in beauties to en- 
chant it. But to all these our two lovely young women were mo- 
mentarily as insensible as they were to the fact that their own charm- 
ing forms, floating among shrubbeiy as fragrant as themselves, 
added in no slight degree to the beauty of the scene. In manner, 
Mildred was earnest, if not ardent, and a little excited; on the other 
hand, Anna was placid, though sensitive; changing color without 
^easing, as her thoughts were drawn nearer and nearer to that. theme 
Which now included the great object of her existence. 

“ Your uncle brought me letters from towm last evening, Anna 
dear,” commenced the liberated lady; “ one of them is from Mon- 
sieur de Larocheforte. Is that not strange?” 

“ What is there so strange in a husband waiting to a wife? To 
me, it seems the most natuial thing in the world.” 

“ It does? 1 am surprised to hear you say so — you, Anna, whom 
1 regarded as so truly my friend. 1 have discarded 'Monsieur de 
Larocheforte, and he ought to respect my pleasure.” 

” It vvould have been better, my dear mamma, had you discarded 
him before marriage, instead of after/’ 

“ Ah— your dear mamma, indeed! 1 was your school -mamma, 
Anna, and well had it been for me had J been left to finish my 
•education in my own country. Then, 1 should have escaped this 
most unfortunate marriage! Do not marry, Anna — take my advice, 
and never marry. Matrimony is unsuited to ladies.” 

“ How long have you been of this opinion, dear mamma?” asked 
the young girl, smiling. 

‘‘Just as long as 1 have been made to feel how it crushes a 
woman’s independence, and how completely it gives her a master, 
and how very, very humiliating and depressing is the bondage it in- 
flicts. Do you not feel the force of my reasons?” 

“ I confess 1 do not,” answered Anna, in a subdued, yet clear 
and distinct voice. ‘‘ 1 see nothing humiliating or depressing in a 
woman’s submission to her husband. It is the law of nature, and 
why should we wish to alter it? My mother has ever inculcated 
■such opinions, and you will excuse me if 1 say I think the Bible 
does, also.” 

“ The Bible! Yes, that is a good book, though 1 am afraid it is 
very little read in France. I ought, perhaps, "to say, ‘read very 
little by strangers resident in France.’ The Frenchwomen, them- 
selves, are not one halt as negligent of their duties, ’in this respect, 
as are the strangers who go to reside among them. When the'roots, 
that have grown to any size in their native soil, are violently trans- 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


287 

planted to another, it is not often that the tree obtains its proper 
dimensions* and grace. 1 wish 1 had never seen France, Anna, in 
which case 1 should never have been Madame de Larocheforte — 
ncomtesse , by the old law, and 1 am afraid it was that idle appella- 
tion that entrapped me. 'How much more trul y respectable I should 
have been as Mrs. John Smith, or Mrs. John Brown, or Mrs. David 
Smith, the wife of a countryman, if 1 must be a wife at all! ,> 

“ Choose at least some name of higher pretension,” said Anna, 
laughing. “ Why not a Mrs. Van Rensselaer, or a Mrs. Van Cort- 
landt, or a Mrs. Livingston, or a Mrs. Somebody else, of one of our 
'good old families?” 

“ Families! Do you know, child, it is treason to talk of families 
in this age of anti-rentism. They tell me that the man *wlio makes, 
an estate, may enjoy it, should he happen to know how, and this, 
though he may have cheated all he ever dealt with, in order to be- 
come rich; but, that he who inherits an estate has uo claim. It is 
his tenants who have the high moral claim to his father’s property, ” 

“ I know nothing of all this, and would rather talk of things I 
understand.” 

“ By which you mean wedlock, and its cares! No, my dear, you 
little understand what matrimony is, or how much humiliation is 
required of us women to become wives, or you would never think 
of marrying.” 

“ 1 have never told you that 1 do think of marrying — that is, not 
much.” 

“ There spoke your honest nature, which will not permit even ars 
unintended deception. This it was that so much attached me to 
you as a child; for, though 1 am not very ingenuous u^self, Leans 
admire the quality in another.” 

“ This admission does not exactly prove the truth of your words, 
mamma!” said Anna, smiling. 

“ No matter — let us talk of matrimony. Has John Wiimeter 
proposed to you, Anna?” 

This was a home question; no wonder the young lady started. 
After a short, musing pause, however, the native candor of Anna 
Updyke prevailed, and she admitted that he had. 

“ Thank you for this confidence; but you must go further. Re- 
member, 1 am. your mamma. Is the gentleman accepted?” 

A rosy blush, succeeded by a nod of the head, was the answer. 

“ 1 am sorry 1 was not consulted before all this happened; though 
1 have managed my own matters so ill, as to have very few claims 
to your confidence. You scarce know what you undertake, my 
child.” 

“ 1 undertake to become Jack Wilmeter’s wife,” answered the be- 
trothed, in a very low but a very firm voice; “ and 1 hope I shall 
make him a good one. Most of all, do I pray to be obedient and 
submissive.” 

V To no man that breathes, Anna!— no, to no man breathing! It 
is their business to submit to us ; not we to them!” 

“ This is not my reading of the great rule of woman's conduct. 
In my view of our duties, it is the part of woman to be affectionate* 
mild, patient, and sympathizing— if necessary, forgiving. I firmly 


■288 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


believe that, in the end, such a woman can not fail to he as happy 
as is permitted to us to be, here on earth.” 

“ Forgiving!” repeated Mildred, her eyes flashing, “ yes, that is 
:a word often used, yet how few truly practice its teachings? Why 
should 1 forgive anyone that has wronged me? Our nature tells 
us to resent, to punish, if necessary, as you say — to revenge.” 

A slight shudder passed through the frame of Anna, and she un- 
consciously moved further from her companion, though their arms 
still continued locked. 

“ There must he a great difference between France and America, 
if revenge is ever taught to a woman, as a part of her duty,” returned- 
the younger female, now speaking with an earnestness she had not 
before betrayed; “ here, we are told that Christianity forbids the 
very thought of it, and that to forgive is among the very first of our 
duties. My great instructor in such things has told me that one of 
the surest evidences of a hopeful state of the feeljngs is the banish- 
ment of everything like resentment, and a desire to be at peace with 
all around us — to have a perception that we love the race as beings 
of our wants and hopes.” 

“ is this the sort of love, then, with which you give your hand to 
young Wil meter ?” 

Scarlet is not brighter than was the color that now glowed in the 
cheeks of Anna, stole into her temples, and even diffused itself over 
her neck and chest. To herself it seemed as if her very hands 
blushed. Then the power of innocence came to sustain her, and 
she became calm and steady. 

“ It is not the feeling with which 1 shall marry John,” she said. 
“ Nature has given us another sentiment, and 1 shall not endeavor 
to be superior tf all of m} r sex and class. I love John Wilmeter, 1 
own; and I hope to make him happy. 

“ To be a dutiful, obedient wife, forever studying his tastes and 
•caprices!” 

“I trust 1 shall 1 not be forever)' studying the indulgence, of my 
own. J see nothing; degrading to a woman, in her filling the place 
nature and Christianity 'have assigned to her, and in her doing her 
duty as a wife. ” 

“These are not wry feelings, receiving your terms as you wish 
them to be understood. But several have told me 1 ought never to 
have married; 1 myself know that I should have been an American, 
and not a French wife.” 

“ 1 have ever heard that greater latitude is given to our sex, in 
France, than in this country.” 

“ That is true in part only. Nothing can exceed the retenue of a 
French girl, or anything that is decent exceed the want of it that is 
manifested by many Ameiicans. On the other hand, a married 
woman here has no privileges at all, not even in society; while in 
France, under an air of great seeming propriety, she does very much 
as she sees fit. It is a mistake, however, to suppose that faithful 
wives, and devoted mothers, most especially the last, are not to be 
found all over Europe — in France, in particular.” 

“1 am glad to hear it,” cried Anna, with a really gratified air; 
“ it gives me pleasure when 1 hear of any of our sex behaving as 
they should behave.” 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


289 


“ Should behave! 1 fear, Anna, a little covert reproach is in- 
tended, in that remark. Our estimate of the conduct of our friends 
must depend on our notions of our own duties. Now, hearken to 
my manner of reasoning on this subject. In a physical sense, man 
is strong, woman is weak; while, in a moral sense, woman is strong 
and man is weak. You admit my premises?” 

“ The first part of them, certainly,” said Anna, laughing, '“ while 
1 pretend to no knowledge of the last.” 

“ Y r ou surely do not believe that John Wilmeter is as pure, in- 
genuous, good, as you are yourself?” 

' ‘ I see no reason why he should not be. 1 am far from certain 
Jack is not even better.” 

“ It is useless to discuss such a subject with you. The principle 
of pride is wanting, without which you can never enter into my feel- 
ings.” 

“ 1 am glad it is so. I fancy John will be all the happier for it. 
Ah! my dear mamma, 1 never knew any good come of what you 
call this ' principle of pride.’ We are told to be humble aud not 
to be proud. It may be ail the better for us females that rulers are 
given to us here, in the persons of our husbands.” 

“ Anna Updyke, do you marry John Wilmeter with the feeling 
that he is to rule? You overlook the signs of the times, the ways 
of the hour, child, if you do aught so weak! Look arourrd you, 
and see how everybody, almost everything, is becoming independ- 
ent, our sex included. Formerly, as I have heard elderly persons 
say, if a woman suffered in her domestic relations, she was com- 
pelled to suffer all. The quarrel lasted for a life. Now, no one 
thinks of being so unreasonably wretched. No, the wronged wife, 
or even the offended wife— Monsieur de Larocheforte snuffs abom- 
inably— abominably — yes, abominably — but no wife is obliged, in 
these times of independence and reason, 1o endure a snuffy hus- 
band — ” 

“No,” broke in Punscomb, appearing from an adjoining path, 
“she has only to pack up her spoons and be oft. The Code can 
never catch her. If it could on one page, my life for it there is a 
hole for her to get out of its grasp on the next. Your servant, 
ladies; 1 have been obliged to overhear more of your conversation 
than was intended for my ears, perhaps; these paths running so 
close to each other, and you being so animated— and now, 1 mean 
to take an old man’s privilege, and speak my mind. In ihe first 
place, 1 shall deal with the agreeable. Anna, my love, Jack is a 
lucky fellow— far luckier than he deserves to be. You carry the 
right sentiment into wedlock. It is the right of the husband to be 
the head of his family; and the wife who resists his authority is 
neither prudent nor a Christian. He may abuse it, it is true; but, 
even then, so long as criminality is escaped, it were better to sub- 
mit. 1 approve of every word you have uttered, dear, and thank 
you for it all in my nephew’s name. And now, Mildred, as one 
who has a right to advise you, by his avowed love for your grand- 
mother, and recent close connection with yourself, let me tell you 
what 1 think of those principles that you avow, and also of the state 
of things that is so fast growing up in this country. In the first 
place, he is no true friend of your sex who teaches it this doctrine 


290 


THE WATS -OF' THE HOUR. 


ol independence. 1 should think— it is true, 1 am only a bachelor, 
and have no e^erience to back me— but, 1 should think that a 
woman who truly loves her husband, would find a delight in her 
dependence — ” 

“Oh! certainly!” exclaimed Anna— biting her tongue at the next 
instant, and blushing scarlet at her own temerity. 

“ I understand you, child, and approve again — but there comes 
Jack, and 1 shall have to turn you over to him, that you may re- 
ceive a good scolding from head-quarters, for this abject servitude 
feeling that you have betrayed. Go — go— his arm is held out 
already— and harkee, young folk, remember that a new maxim in 
morals has come in with the Code — ‘ Principles depend on Circum- 
stances.’ That is the rule of conduct nowadays— that, and anti- 
rentism, and * republican simplicity,’ and the ‘ cup-and saucer law,’ 
and— and— yes — and the ever- blessed Code!” 

Dunscomb was obliged to stop for breath, which gave the young 
counle an opportunity to walk away. As for Mildred, she stood 
collected, extremely lady-like in mien, but with a slight degree of 
hauteur expressed in her countenance. 

“ And now, sir, that we are alone,” she said, “ permit me to in- 
quire what my part of the lecture is to be. 1 trust you will remem- 
ber, however, that, while I am Mildred Millington by birth, the 
law Which you so much reverence and admire, makes me Madame 
de Larocheforte. ” 

“ You mean to say that 1 have the honor of conversing with a 
married woman?” 

“ Exactly so, Mr. Dunscomb.” 

“ 1 comprehend you, ma’am, and shall respect your position. 
You are not about to become my njece, and 1 can claim no right to 
exceed the bounds of friendship — ” 

“ IN ay, my dear sir, 1 do not wish to say this. You have every 
right to advise. To me, you have been a steady and well-judging 
friend, and this, in the most trying circumstances. 1 am ready to 
hear you, sir, in deference, if not in your beloved humility.” 

“ That which 1 have to say refers solely to your own happiness, 
Mildred. Your return to America has, I fear, been most inop- 
portune. Among other innovations that are making on every side 
of us, even to the verge of dissolution of civilized society, comes the 
liberty of woman. Need I tell you, what will be the next step in 
this downward career?” 

! “You needs must, Mr. Dunscomb— 1 do not comprehend you. 
What will that step be?” 

“ Her licentiousness. No woman can throw off the most sacred 
of all her earthly 'duties, in this reckless manner, and hope to escape 
from the doom of her sex. After making a proper allowance for 
the increase of population, the increase in separated married people 
is getting to be out ot all proportion. Scarce a month passes that 
one does not hear of some wife who has left her husband, secreted 
herself with a child perhaps, as you did, in some farm- house, pass- 
ing by a different name, and struggling for her rights, as she im- 
agines. Trust me, Mildred, all this is much opposed to nature as 
it is to prescribed duties. That young woman spoke merely what 
an inward impulse, that is incorporated with her very being, prompt- 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUE. 


291 


ed her to utter. A most excellent mother — oh! what a blessing Is 
that to one of your sex — how necessary, how heavenly, how holy! 
^an excellent mother has left her in ignorance of no one duty, and 
her character has been formed in what 1 shall term harmony with 
her sex. 1 must be plain, Mildred — you have not enjoyed this ad- 
vantage. Deprived of your parent young, known to be rich, and 
transplanted to another soil, your education has necessarily been 
intrusted to hirelings, flatterers, or persons indifferent to your real 
well-being; those who have consulted most the reputation of their 
instruction, and have paid the most attention to those arts which 
soonest strike the eye, and most readily attract admiration. In 
this, their success has been complete.” 

“ While you think it has not been so much so, sir, in more material 
things?” said the lady, haughtily. 

“ Let me be sincere. It is due to my relation to you— to your 
grandmother — to the past — to the present time. ' 1 know the blood 
that runs in your veins, Mildred. You are self-willed by descent, 
rich by inheritance, independent by the folly of our legislators. Ac- 
cident has brought you home, at the very moment when our ill- 
considered laws are unhinging society in many of its most sacred 
interests; and, consulting only an innate propensity, you have vent- 
ured to separate from your husband, to conceal yourself in a cot- 
tage, a measure, 1 dare say, that comported well with your love of 
the romantic—” 

“ Not so — l was oppressed, annoyed, unhappy at home, and 
sought refuge in that cottage. Monsieur de Larocheforte has such 
a passion for snuff! He uses it night and day.” 

“ Then followed the serious consequences which involved you in 
so many fearful dangers—” 

“ True,” interrupted the lady, laying her small, gloved hand 
hastily on his arm — “ very true, dear Mr. Dunscomb; but how 
cleverly I contrived to escape them all!— how well 1 managed your 
Mr. Timms, good Mrs. Gott, the puffy, pompous sheriff, that wily 
Williams too, whose palm felt the influence of my gold— oh! the 
excitement of the last two months has been a gift of paradise to me, 
and, for the first time since my marriage, have 1 known what true 
happiness was!” 

.Dunscomb turned, astonished, to his companion, and stared her 
in the face. Never was the countenance more lovely to the cursory 
glance, the eye blighter, the cheek with a richer glow on it, or the 
whole air, mien and attitude more replete with womanly loveliness, 
and womanly graces; but the observant eye of the lawyer penetrat- 
ed beyond all these, and detected the unhappy spiiit which had 
gained possession of a tenement so lovely. The expression of the 
countenance denoted the very triumph of cunning. We pretend 
not to a knowledge of the arcana of nature, to be able to detect the 
manner in which the moving principles prompt to good or evil, but 
we must reject all sacred history, and no small portion of profane, 
not to believe that agencies exist that are not visible to our ordinary 
senses; aud that our boasted reason, when abandoned to its own 
support, becomes the victim of those that are malign. We care not 
by what names these agents are called, imps, demons, evil spirits, 
or evil passions; but this we do know, let him beware who submits 


292 THE WATS OF THE HOUR. 

to their control Better, tar better, were it that such an one had 
never been born! 

Three days later Mildred Millington was in a state that left no 
doubt of her infirmity. The lucid intervals were long, however, 
and at such times her mind seemed clear enough on all subjects but 
one. Divorce was her “ ruling passion,” and, in order to effect her 
purpose, all the extraordinary ingenuity ot a most fertile mind was 
put in requisition. Although means were promptly, but cautiously, 
taken to see that she did not squander her large pecuniary resources, 
Dunscomb early saw that they were uncalled for. Few persons 
were better qualified to look after their money than was this un- 
fortunate lady, in the midst of the dire visitation that intellectually 
reduced her below the level of most around her. On tfiis head her 
sagacity was of proof; though her hand was not closed in the gripe 
of a miser. Accustomed, from childhood, to a liberal expenditure, 
she was willing still to use the means that an inscrutable Provi- 
dennce had so liberally placed in her way, her largesses and her 
charities continuing the same as ever. Down to the. present mo- 
ment the fund-holder, the owner of town property, the mortgagee, 
and the- trader is allowed to enjoy his own, without any direct in- 
terference of the demagogue wilh his rights; but bow much longer 
this exception is to last, is known only to the Being who directs the 
destinies of nations; or, at least, not to any who are now on earth, 
surrounded equally by the infirmities and ignorance of the present 
state. 

But Mildred was. and is yet, permitted to exercise her rights over 
her own property, though care is had to see that no undue advan- 
tage is taken of her sex, years, and ignorance. Beyond this tier con- 
trol was not disputed, and she was suffered to manage her own 
affairs. She set about the mattei of a divorce with the whole energy 
ot her nature, and the cunning ot her malady. Timms was again 
summoned to her service, unknown to Dunscomb, who would 
never have winked at the measures that were taken, though so 
much in accordance with “ the ways of the hour.” 

Provided with proper credentials, this managing agent sought an 
interview with M. de Uarocheforte, a worn-out debauchee of some 
rank, who, sooth to say, had faults even graver than that of taking 
snuff. Notwithstanding the great personal attractions of Mildred, 
the motive for marrying her had been money: as is usually the 
case in a very great proportion of the connections of the old world, 
among persons of condition. Love is to succeed, and not to pre- 
cede, matrimony. Mildred had been taught that lesson, and griev- 
ously had she been disappointed. The snuff got into her eyes. M. 
de Larocheforte — M. le Yicomte as he had been, and was still de- 
termined to be, and in all probability will be, in spite of all the 
French “ republican simplicity ” that was ever summoned to a na- 
tion’s rescue — M. le Yicomte was directly approached by Timms, 
and a proposal made that he should put himself in a condition to be 
divorced, for a stipulated price. Notwithstanding the opinion of 
the learned attorney-general of this great State, of the European 
aristocracy, and who is so every way qualified to give such an opin- 
ion*, ex-ojjicio as it might be, M. de Larocheforte declined* lending 
himself to so vile a proposition, Frenchman and noble as he was. 


THE WAYS OE THE HOUR, 


293 


Nor did the husband believe that the discreditable proposal came 
from his wite. He compelled Timms to admit as much, under a 
menace of losing his case. That worthy was puzzled at this result, 
for he had made the proposal on his “ own hook,” as he afterward 
explained the matter to Williams, in the fullest confidence of “ re- 
publican simplicity,” and was astonished at meeting with the self- 
respect of a gentleman, if with no very elevated principles in a no- 
bleman! it was accordingly necessary to have recourse to some 
other mode of proceeding. 

Luckily tor the views of Timms and his fair client, one can 
scarcely go amiss in' this country, when a divorce is desired. Al- 
though a few of the older States remain reasonably inflexible on 
this subject, in some respects unreasonably so, indeed, they are 
generally surrounded by communities that are more indulgent. 
By means of some hocus pocus of the law, that we pretend not 
to explain, the names of Gabriel Jules Vincent Jean Baptiste de 
Larocheforte ads. Mildred de Larocheforte were just beginning 
to steal on the dawn of the newspapers, in a case that, ere long, 
might blaze in the meridian of gossip. 

Dunscomb frowned, and reproached, but it was too late to recede. 
He has told Mildred, and he has told Timms, that nuptial knots tied 
in one community, can not be so readily unloosed in another, as 
many imagine; and that there must, at least, be good faith — the 
animus revertendi — in the change of residence that usually precedes 
the application. But money is very powerful, and smooths a thou- 
sand difficulties. No one could predict the termination; and, as the 
vicomte, though only to be approached in a more delicate way than 
that adopted. by Timms, was as tired of the connection as his wife, 
and was very anxious to> obtain a larger share of the fortune than 
the “ cup and saucer ” law will give him, it was by no means im- 
probable that the end of the affair would be a quasi-divorce, that 
would at least enable each party to take his or her own course, with- 
out fear of molestation from the other. 

In the meantime, Millington was married very shortly after the 
trial. The engagement had not been long, but the parties had known 
each other intimately for years. The bridegroom, in one sense, was 
the head of his family, though by no means possessed of its largest 
fortune. In this character, it devolved on him to care for the in- 
terests of his fair relative. Although as much opposed as Dunscomb 
to the course she was taking, he did not shrink from his duties as a 
relative; and it is understood that his house is Mildred’s home when 
in town. Rattletrap opened its hospitable doors to the unfortunate 
woman, whenever she chose to visit the place; and Timbully has 
also claims on her time and presence. 

Dunscomb announced his intention to retire from practice at the 
end of a twelvemonth, the morning that Michael and Sarah were 
married. In the intervening time, John Wilmeter and his new 
nephew were received as partners, and the worthy bachelor is now 
sedulously but silently transferring as respectable and profitable a 
list of clients as any man in tne courts can claim. His own advice 
is promised, at all times, to his old friends; and, as not a soul has 
objected, and the young men bid fair, there is every reason to hope 
that useful and profitable labor will keep both out of mischief. 


294 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

Some curate has penn’d this invective, 

And you have studied it. 

Massinger. 

The day set apart lor the nuptials of John Wilmeter and Anna 
Updyke finally arrived. The ceremony was to take place in a little 
church that had stood, time out of mind, in the immediate neigh- 
borhood of Timbully. This church was colonial in its origin, and, 
while so much around it has undergone vital changes, there stands 
that little temple, reared in honor of God, in its simplicity, unpre- 
tending yet solid and durable architecture, resembling, in all these 
particulars, the faith it was erected to sustain. Among the other 
ways of the hour that are worthy of our notice, the church itself has 
sustained many rude shocks of late — shocks from within as well as 
from without. The Father of Lies has been roving through its flocks 
with renewed malice, damaging the shepherds, perhaps, quite as 
much as the sheep, and doing things hitherto unheard of in the brief 
annals of American Ecclesiastical History. Although we deeply 
regret this state of things, we feel no alarm. The hand which first 
reared this moral fabric will be certain to protect it as far as that 
protection shall be for its good. It has already effected a great re- 
form. The trumpet is no longer blown in Zion in our own honor; 
to boast of the effects of a particular discipline; to announce the 
consequences of order, and of the orders; or, in short, to proclaim 
a superiority that belongs only to the Head of all the churches, let 
them be further from, or nearer to, what are considered distinctive 
principles. What the church is now enduring the country itself 
most sadly wants — a lesson in humility; a distrust of self, a greater 
dependence on that wisdom which comes, not from the voices of the 
people, not from the ballot-boxes, not from the halls of senates, 
from heroes, god-likes, or stereotyped opinions, but from above, the 
throne of the Most High. 

In one of those little temples reared by our fathers in the days of 
the monarchy, when, in truth, greater republican simplicity really 
reigned among us, in a thousand things, than reigns to day, the 
bridal party from Timbully was assembled at an early hour of the 
morning. The company was not large, though it necessarily in- 
cluded most of the nearest Relatives of the bride and groom. JJuns- 
comb was there, as were Millington and his wife; Dr. and Mrs. 
McBrain, of course, and two or tnree other relations on the side of 
the bride’s father, besides Mildred. It was to be a private wed- 
ding, a thing that is fast getting to be forgotten. Extravagance and 
parade have taken such deep root among us that young people scarce 
consider themselves legally united unless there are six bridemaids, 
one, in particular, to “ pull off the glove;” as many attendants of 
the other sex, and some three or four hundred friends in the even- 
ing, to bow and courtesy before the young couple, utter a few words 
of nonsense, and go their way to bow and courtesy somewhere else. 


THE WAYS OE THE HOUE. 


295 


There was nothing of this at Timbully, on that wedding-day. 
Dunscomb and his nephew drove over from Rattletrap, early in the 
morning, even while the dew was glittering on the meadows, and 
Millington and his wife met them at a cross-road, less than a mile 
from McBrain’s country-house. The place of rendezvous was at the 
church itself, and thither the several vehicles directed their way. 
Dunscomb was just in time to hand Mildred from her very complete 
traveling-carriage, of which the horses were in a foam, having: been 
driven hard all the way from town. Last of all, appeared Stephen 
Hoot, driving the very respectable-looking rockaway of Mrs. Mc- 
Brain — we were on the point of writing his “ master,” but there are 
no longer any “ masters” in New York. Stephen, himself, who had 
not a spark of pride, except in his horses, and who was feally much 
attached to the person he served, always spoke of the doctor as his 
“boss.” Jack Wilmeter, somewhat of a wag, had perplexed the 
honest coachman, on a certain occasion, by telling him that “ boss ” 
was the Latin for “ ox,” and that it was beneath his dignity to be 
using Pill and Pole- us (Bolus) to drag about “ oxen.” But Stephen 
recovered from this shock in due time, and has gone on ever since, 
calling his master “ boss.” Yfe suppose this touch of “ republican 
simplicity” will maintain its ground along with the other sacred 
principles that certain persons hold on to so tightly that they suffer 
others, of real importance, to slip through their fingers. 

Stephen was proud of his office that day. He liked his new mis- 
tress — there are no bossesses—and he particularly liked Miss Anna. 
His horses were used a good deal more than formerly, it is true; but 
this he rather liked too, having lived under the regimes of the two 
first Mrs. McBrain. He was doubly satisfied because his team came 
in fresh, without having a hair turned, while that of Madame, as all 
the domestics now called Mildred, were white with foam. Stephen 
took no account of the difference in the distance, as he conceived 
that a careful coachman would have had his “boss” up early 
enough to get over the ground in due season, without all this 
haste. Little did he understand the bossess that Ins brother-whip 
had to humor. She paid high, and had things her own way. 

Anna thought Stephen had never driven so fast as he did that 
morning. The doctor handed her from the carriage, leading her 
and his wife directly up to the altar. Here the party was met by 
John and his uncle, the latter of whom facetiously styled himself 
the “ groomsman.” It is a ceremony much more easily done than 
undone— great as the facilities for the last are getting to be. In 
about five minutes, John Wilmeter and Anna Updyke were pro- 
nounced to be “ one flesh.” In five minutes more, Jack had his 
sweet, smiling, happy, tearful bride, in his own light vehicle, and 
was trotting away toward a pretty little place in Westchester, that 
he owns, and which was all ready to receive the young couple. The 
ponies seemed to understand their duty, and soon carried the bride 
and bridegroom out of sight. 

“ Them’s awful trotters, them nags of Mr. Jack Wilmington’s,” 
said Stephen, as the double phaeton whirled away from the church 
door, “ and it Miss A nny doesn’t disapprove on ’em, afore long, I’m 
no judge of a team. I’m glad, however, Ihe young gentleman has 


296 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


married into our family, for he does like a hoss, and the gentleman 
that likes a hoss commonly likes his rife.” 

His remark was overheard by Dunscomb, though intended only 
for the ears of the counselor’s coachman. It drew an answer, as 
might have been foreseen. 

“ I am glad you approve of the connection, Stephen,” said the 
counselor in his good-natured way. ” It is a great satisfaction to 
know that my nephew goes among friends.” 

*• Fri’uds, sir! Admirers is a better tarm. I’m a downright ad- 
mirer of Mr. Jack, he’s sick tastes; always with his dog, or his gun, 
or his hoss, in the country; and 1 dares to say, with his books in 
town.” s 

“ Not just all that, Stephen; 1 wish it were so; but truth compels 
me to own that the young rogue thinks quite as much of balls, and 
suppers, and tailors, and the opera, as he does of Coke upon Lyl- 
tlelon. or Blackstone and Kent.” 

‘‘Yell, that’s wrong,” answered Stephen, “and I’ll uphold no 
man in vot’s wrong, so long as 1 can do better. 1 know’d both 
them racers, having heard tell on ’em at the time they vos run, and 
I’ve heard good judges say, that timed the hosses, that Kent come 
in neck and neck, if justice had been done. Mr. Jack will rectify, 
and come to see the truih afore long — mattermony will do that 
much for him. It’s a great help to the seekers arter truth, is mat- 
termony, sir!” 

“ That is the reason you have so much of it at Timbully, 1 sup- 
pose,” returned Dunscomb, nodding familiarly toward his friend 
the doctor, who had heard all that was said. “ If matrimony recti- 
fies in this way you must be three times right at home, Stephen.” 

'* Yes, sir,” answered the coachman, nodding his head in reply, 

“ and when a body does better and better, as often as he tries, there’s 
no great harm in trying. Mr. Jack vill come round, in time.” 

” 1 dare say he will, Stephen, when he has sown all his wild oats; 
though the dog pretends to like the Code, and what is more, has 
the impudence to say he understands it.” 

“Yes, sir, all wrong, 1 dares to say. But Miss Anna will set 
him right, as a righter young lady never sat on the back seat of a 
coach. 1 vish, now ve’re on the subject, Squire Dunscomb, to 
hear your ra’al opinion about them vild oats; vether they be a true 
thing, or merely a fancy consarning some vegetable that looks like 
the true feed. I’ve often heard of sick things, but never seed any.” 

“ Nor will you, Stephen, until the doctor turns short round, and 
renews his youlh. Then, indeed, you may see some of the grain 
growing beneath your feet. It is doctor’s food.” 

“ Meshy, and good for the grinders of old hosses, 1 dares to say.” 

“ Something of the sort. It’s the harvest that age reaps from 
the broadcast of youth. But we are keeping Mrs. McBrain wait- 
ing. Stephen will take one less back with him" than he brought, my 
dear lady.” 

“ I trust not. Mr. McBrain has given me reason-to hope for the 
pleasure of your company. Your nephew has carried off my 
daughter; the least you can do is to come apd console me.” 

“ What is then to become of that dear, but unfortunate young 
lady?” glancing toward Mildred. 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 297 

“ She goes with her relatives, the Millingtons. Next week, we 
are all to meet at Rattletrap, you know.” 

The next week the meeting took place, as appointed. 

“ Here 1 am,” cried Dunscomb, “ truly and finally a bachelor, 
again. Now for the reign of misrule, negligence, and bad house- 
keeping. Sarah has left me; and John has left me; and Rattletrap 
will soon become the chosen seat of discomfort and cynicism.” 

“Never the last, 1 should think,” answered Mme. de Laroche- 
forte, gayly, “ as long as you are its master. But why should you 
dwell alone here, in your declining years— why may 1 not come and 
be your housekeeper?” 

“ The offer is tempting, coming, as it does, from one who can not 
keep house for herself. But you think of returning to Europe, 1 
' believe?” 

“ Never — or not so long as my own country is so indulgent to us 
women 1” 

“ Why, yes— you are right enough in that, Mildred. This is 
woman’s paradise, in a certain sense, truly; though much less atten- 
tion is paid to their weakness and wants, by the affluent, than in 
other lands. In every Christian country but this, 1 believe, a wife 
may be compelled to do her duty. * Here she is free as the air she 
breathes, so long as she has a care not to offend in one essential. 
No, you are right to remain at home, in your circumstances; that is 
to say, it you still insist on your mistaken independence; a condi- 
tion in which nature never intended your sex to exist ” 

“ And yourself, sirl Did not nature as much intend that you 
should marry as another?” 

“It did,” answered Dunscomb, solemnly; “ and 1 would have 
discharged the obligation, had it been in my power. You well 
know why 1 have never been a husband— the happy parent of a 
happy family.” 

Mildred’s eyes swam with tears. She had heard the history of 
her grandmother’s caprice, and had justly appreciated the wrongs 
of Dunscomb. This it was not difficult for her to do, in the case of 
third parties, even while so obtuse on the subject of her own duties. 
She look the hand of her companion, by a stealthy and unexpected 
movement, and raised it still more unexpectedly to her lips. Duns- 
comb started; turned iiis quick glance on her face, where he read 
all her contrition and regrets. It was by these sudden exhibitions 
of right feeling and correct judgment, that Mme. de Larocheforte 
was able to maintain her position. The proofs of insanity were so 
limited in the range of its influence, occurred so rarely, now she 
was surrounded by those who really took an interest in her, and this 
not for the sake of her money, but tor her own sake, that her feel- 
ings had become softened, and she no longer regarded men and 
women as beings placed near her to prey on her means, and 1o 
persecute her. By thus giving her affections scope her minct was 
gradually getting to be easier, and her physical existence improved. 
McBrain was of opinion that, with care, and with due attention to 
avoid excitement and distasteful subjects, her reason might again 
be seated bn its throne, and bring all the faculties of her mind in 
subjection to it. 

At length the time for the visit of the young people arrived. 


298 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR, 


Anxious to see happy faces assembled around him, Dunscomb had 
got Mildred, the McBrains, and the Millingtons, at Rattletrap, to do 
honor to the bride and groom. Good Mrs. Gott had not been over- 
looked, and by an accident, Timms drove in at the gate, just as the 
whole party, including Jack and his blooming wife, were sitting 
down to a late breakfast. The counselor welcomed his man of all 
work, tor habit renders us less fastidious in our associations than 
most of us imagine. 

Timms was very complimentary to both of the young couples, 
and in a slight degree witty, agreeably to his own mode of regard- 
ing the offspring of that effort of the imagination. 

“ What do you think of Williams’s getting married, Squire Duns- 
combe?” the attorney asked. “ There’s a man for matrimony! He 
regards women and niggers as inferior beings.” 

“Pray how do you "regard them, Timms? The women only, 1 
suppose?” 

“Oh! dear, no, squire; as far as possible from that! 1 reverence 
the ladies, without whom our state in this life would be — ” 

“ Single— 1 suppose you wish to say. Yes, that is a very sensible 
remark of yours — without women we should certainly all get to be 
old bachelors, in time. But, Timms, it is proper that 1 should be 
frank with you. Mildred de Larocheforte may manage to get a 
divorce, by means of some of the quirks of the law; but were she to 
be proclaimed single, by sound of trumpet, she would never marry 
you.” 

“You are sharp on me this morning, sir; no one but the lady, 
herself, can say that” 

“ There you are mistaken. \ know it, and am ready to give my 
reasons for what 1 say.” 

“ I should be pleased to hear them, sir — always respect your 
reasoning powers, though 1 think no man can sa} r who a lady will 
or will not marry.” 

“ In the first place she does not like you. That is one sufficient 
reason, Timms — ” 

“ Her dislike may be overcome, sir.” 

“ Her tastes are very refined. She dislikes her present husband 
principally because he takes snuff.” 

“ I should have thought she might have discovered her feelings 
on that subject, before she went so far.” 

“Not as' they manage matters in Europe. There, the suitor is 
not permitted to kiss his intended, as so often happens among our- 
selves, i fancy; and she -had no opportunity of ascertaining how 
unpleasant snuff is. You chew and smoke, and she will endure 
neither.” 

“I’ll forswear both, rather than not be agreeable to dear Mary 
Monson.” 

“Ah, my poor Timms, 1 see you are deeper in this affair than 1 
had supposed. But 1 shall turn you over to Mrs. Gott, who has 
promised to have an explanation with you, and who, 1 believe, will 
speak by authority. ” 

Timms was not a little surprised to see his old master very un- 
ceremoniously leave him, and the sheriff’s wife occupy his place. 

“ Squire Timms,” the latter commenced, without a moment’s 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


299 


hesitation, “ we live in a very strange world, it must be admitted. 
Gott says as much as this, and Gott is commoDly right. He always 
maintained he never should be called on to hang Mary Monson.” 

“ Mr. Gott is a very prudent man, but he would do well to take 
more care of his keys.” 

“ 1 have not been able to find out how that was done! Mary 
laughs when 1 ask her, and says it was witchcraft; I sometimes 
think it must have been something of the sort.” 

“ It was money, Mrs. Gott, which kept Goodwin concealed to the 
last moment, and brought about half of all that happened.” 

“You knew that Peter Goodwin was alive, and hid up at Mrs. 
Horton’s?” 

“ 1 was as much surprised, when he entered the court, as any one 
there. My client managed it all tor herself. She, and her gold.” 

“ Well, you have the credit of it, Timms, let me tell you, and 
many in the county think it was very well done. 1 am your 
friend, and ever have been. You stood by Gott like a man, at his 
election, and 1 honor you for it. So I am about to give you a great 
proof of my friendship.’ Give up all I hough ts of Mary Monson; 
she’ll never have you.” 

“ What reasons have you for saying this?” 

“ In the first place she is married already.” 

“ She may get a divorce. Besides, her present husband is not a 
citizen. If I go to the senate, 1 intend to introduce a bill to prevent 
any but citizens getting married. If foreigners want wives, let 
them be naturalized!” 

“ You talk like a simpleton! Another reason why you should not 
think of Mary Monson is that you are unsuited to be her husband?” 

“ In what particular, I beg leave to ask?” 

“Oh! in several. You are both too sharp, and would quarrel 
about your wit, in the very first month,” returned Mrs. Gott, laugh- 
ing. “ Take my advice, Timms, and cast your eyes on some Dukes 
County young woman, who has a natur’ more like your own.” 

Timms growled out a dissent to this very rational proposition, 
but the discussion was carried on for some time longer. The woman 
made an impression at last, and when the attorney left the house it 
was with greatly lessened hopes for the future, and with greatly 
lessened zeal on the subject oi the divorce. 

It was singular, perhaps, that Mrs. Gott had not detected the 
great secret of Mary MonSon’s insanity. So many persons are going 
up and down the country, who are mad on particular subjects, and 
sane on most others, that it is not surprising the intelligence and 
blandishments of a woman like Mildred should throw dust into the 
eyes of one as simple-minded as Mrs. Gott. With the world at 
large, indeed, the equivoque was kept up, and while many thought 
the lady very queer, only a few suspected the truth. It may be 
fortunate for most of us that writs of lunacy are not taken out 
against us; few' men, or women, being under the control of a good, 
healthful reason at all times, and on all subjects. 

In one particular, Mme. de Larocheforte was singularly situated. 
She was surrounded, in her ordinary associations, with newly mar- 
ried persons, who were each and ail strenuously resolved to regard 
the relation in the most favorable point of view. Perhaps there is 


300 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 


nothing on earth that so nearly resembles the pure happiness of the 
blessed, as the felicity that succeeds the entire union of two hearts 
that are wrapped up in each other. Such persons live principally 
for themselves, regarding the world at large as little more than their 
abiding place. The affinity of feelings, the community of thought, 
the steadily increasing confidence which, in the end, almost incor- 
porates the moral existence of two into one, are so many new and 
precious lies, that it is not wonderful the novices believe they are 
transplanted to a new and ethereal state of being. Such was, in a 
measure, the condition of those with whom Mildred was now called 
on to associate- most intimately. It is true, that the state ot the doc- 
tor and his wife might be characterized as only happy, while those 
ot the young people amounted to absolute felicity. Mildred had ex- 
perienced none of the last, and very little ot the first, on the occa- 
sion of her own marriage, which had been entered into more as a 
contract of reason, than a union of love. She saw how much she 
had missed, and profound was the grief it occasioned her. 

“You seem very happy,” she remarked one day to Anna, as they 
were again threading the pretty little wood at Rattletrap — “more 
than that — delighted would be a better word.” 

“Jack is very kind to me, and the only complaint 1 have to 
make of him is, that he is more fond of me than 1 deserve. 1 tell 
him 1 tremble lest our happiness may not last!” 

“ Enjoy it while you may. It is so rare to find married persons 
who are so completely devoted to each other, that it is a pleasant 
sight to look upou. 1 never knew any of this,. Anna.” 

“1 regret to hear it, dear mamma— it must be that you began 
wrong. There should be a strong attachment before the nuptial 
benediction is pronounced; then, with good hearts, and good prin- 
ciples, I should think almost any woman might be content with her 
fate.” 

“ It maybe so,” returned Mildred, with a profound sigh; “ I 
suppose it must be so. "We are created by God, to fulfil these kind 
offices to each other, and to love our husbands; and there must be 
something very w r rong when different results follow. For myself, 
1 ought never to have married at ail. My spirit is too independent 
for matrimony.” 

Anna was silent; for, possibly, she might have read “head- 
strong ” for “ independent.” The most truly independent thinkers 
are those who are willing to regard 8 11 sides of a subject, and are 
not particularly wedded to one. Mildred was acute enough to see 
that the beautiful young biide did not exactly like the allusion she 
had made to her new character. 

“You do not agree with me?” she demanded quickly, bending 
forward to look into her companion’s eyes. 

“ How can 1, mamma Mildred! As 1 think no one, man or wom- 
an, should have a spirit that disqualifies her for the duties imposed 
by nature, which is merely the law of our great Creator, how can 1 
agree to your notion of so much independence. We are not intended 
tor all this independence, but have been placed here to do honor to 
God, and to try to render each other happy. 1 wish — but 1 am too 
bold, for one so young and inexperienced,” 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR. 301 

“ Speak freely, clear. 1 listen with pleasure— not to say with 
curiosity.” 

” 1 am afraid, dear mamma, that the great guide of human con- 
duct is not as much studied in France, as it should be. That teaches 
us the great lesson of humility. Without humility we are nothing 
— can not be Christians— can not love our neighbors as ourselves — 
can not even love God, as it is our duty, as we ought to do.” 

“ This is very strange, Anna, coming from one of your age! Is 
it common for American girls to reason and feel in this way?” 

“ Perhaps not, though Thope more so than is commonly supposed. 
You will remember what a mother it is my good fortune to possess. 
But, since you really wish me to be lrank with you, let me finish 
what 1 have to say. 1 suppose you know, Mildred, how much more 
you have to contend with than most of your sex?” 

” Monsieur de Larocheforte, you mean?” 

” Not at all,” returned Mrs. John Wilmeter, slightly smiling. ” 1 
put all thought of contention with a husband out of the question. 
You know 1 have not been married long enough for that, and 1 
could almost hope that the first day of such a scene might be the 
last of my life! John would cease to love me, if I quarreled with 
him.” 

‘‘You will be an extraordinary pair, my dear, it scenes, as you 
call them, do not occasionally occur between you.” 

” 1 do not expect faultlessness in Jack; and, as for myself, 1 know 
that 1 have very many motes to get rid of, and which 1 trust may, 
in a measure, be done. But let us return to the case of a woman, 
young, well-educated, handsome, rich to superfluity, and intellectual. ” 

“ All of which are very good things, my child,” observed Mme. 
de Larocheforte, with a smile so covert as to be scarcely seen, though 
it betrayed to her companion the consciousness of her making the 
application intended—” what next?” 

” Willful, a lover of power, and what she called independent.” 

” Good and bad together. The two first, very bad, I acknowl- 
edge; the last, very good.” 

” What do you understand by independence? If it mean a cer- 
tain disposition to examine and decide for ourselves, under all the 
obligations of duty, then it is a good thing, a very good thing, as 
you say; but if it merely mean a disposition to do as one pleases, to 
say what one likes, and to behave as one may at the mpment fancy, 
then it strikes me as a very bad thing. This independence, half the 
time, is only pride and obstinacy, dear mamma!” 

“ Well, what if it is? Men are proud and obstinate, too; and they 
must be fought with their own weapons.” 

“ It is easy to make smart speeches, but, by the difficulties 1 meet 
with in endeavoring to conquer my own heart, I know it is very 
hard to do right. 1 know 1 am a very young monitress— ” 

” Never mind that. Yoc\ youth gives piquancy to your instruc- 
tions. 1 like to hear you.” 

” Well, I will finish what \had to say. 1 have ever found that 
the best assistant, or it rate * be more reverent to say, the best 
mode of subduing error, wa^ l0 pomport ourselves with humility. 
Ah! my dear mamma, if y oll could understand how very strong 


302 


THE WAYS OF THE HOFR. 


the humble get to he in time, you would throw aside your cherished 
independence, and rely on other means to secure your happiness 1” 

Perhaps Mildred was as much struck with the circumstances un- 
der which this rebuke or admonition was given as with the advice 
itself. It had an effect, however, and Dunscomb coming in aid of 
his niece, this singular woman was gradually drawn from the ex- 
aggerated notions she had ever entertained of herself and her rights 
to the contemplation of her duties, as they are exercised in hu- 
mility. 

If there were no other evidence of the divine origin of the rules of 
conduct taught by the Redeemer than the profound knowledge of 
the human heart, that is so closely connected with the great lessons 
in humility everywhere given in his teachings, we conceive it would 
be sufficient in itself to establish their claim to our reverence. If 
men could be made to feel how strong they become in admitting 
their weaknesses; how clearly they perceive truth, when conscious 
of gazing at its form amidst the fogs of error ; and how wise we may 
become by the consciousness of ignorance, more than half of the 
great battle in morals would be gained. 

Humility was, indeed, a hard lesson for Mildred Millington to 
study. Her whole life had been in direct opposition to its precepts, 
and the great failing of her mind had a strong leaning to a love of 
power. Nevertheless, there is a still, searching process of correct- 
ing, so interwoven with the law of the New Testament, as to be 
irresistible when brought, to aid us, in the manner prescribed by its 
own theory. No one knew I his better than Dunscomb; and he so 
directed the reading, thoughts and feelings of his interesting charge, 
as to produce an early and a very sensible change on her character. 
The tendency to insanity is still there, and probably will ever re- 
main; for it is not so much the consequence of an}'- physical de- 
rangement as of organization; but it already promises to be so far 
controlled, as to leave its unhappy subject generally rational, and, 
from most of her time, reasonably satisfied. 

Dunscomb had several interviews with the xicomte — no-vicomte 
— whom he found a much more agreeable person than he had been 
prepared to meet, though certainly addicted to snuff. He was made 
acquainted with the mental hallucinations of his wife as well* as 
with the fact of their being hereditary, when a great change came 
over the spirit of his dream! He had married to perpetuate the 
family De Larocheforte, but he had no fancy for a race of madmen. 
Dunscomb found him very reasonable, in consequence, and an ar- 
rangement was soon made, under the advice of this able counselor, 
by means of which Mildred virtually became her own mistress. M. 
de Larocheforte accepted an ample provision from the estate, and 
wilingly returned to Europe, a part of the world that is much more 
agreeable, usually, to men of his class than our own “ happy coun- 
try/’ His absence has proved a grtaj. assistance to those wlio have 
assumed the care of Mildred’s mentanstate. As all the schemes for 
a divorce have been discontinued — Schemes that could have led to 
no strictly legal consequence— and husband has lei t the country, 

the mind of Mildred has become/ *{per, and the means have been 
found to bring her almost comp>j e i e K within the control of her rea- 

QAr» J \ 


THE WAYS OF THE HOUR, 


303 


We have very little to say of the other characters. Timms is still 
himselt. He boasts of the fees be got in the great Mary Monson 
case. His prospects for the btate Senate are far from bad, and 
should he succeed, we shall expect to see him whining about “ re- 
publican simplicity,” abusing “ aristocracy,” which, in his secret 
heart, means a clean shirt, clean nails, anti-tobacco chewing and 
anti-blowing-the-nose-with-the-fingers, and aiding anti rentism. He 
is scamp enough for anything. 

Williams is actually married, and, in reply to Timms’s accounts of 
the fees, he intimates that Peter Goodwin’s ghost would not have 
appeared, had he not “ been choked off.” It ought to be strange 
that these two men like to boast of their rascality; but it is in obedi- 
ence to a law of our nature. Their tongues merely echo their 
thoughts. 

The McBrains seem very happy. If the wife be an “ old man’s 
darling,” it is not as a young woman. Dunscomb still calls her 
“ widow,” on occasions, but nothing can interrupt the harmony of 
the friends. It is iounded on mutual esteem and respect. 

Michael and Sarah promise well. In that family, there is already 
a boy, to its great-uncle’s delight. The parents exult in this gift, 
and both are grateful. 

We care little for Jack Wilmeter, though a very good fellow, in 
the main. Anna loves him, however, and that gives him an interest 
in our eyes he might not otherwise enjoy. His charming wife is 
losing her superfluous enthusiasm in the realities of life, but she 
seems to gain in womanly tenderness and warmth of healthful feel- 
ing, precisely in the degree in which she loses the useless tenant of 
her imagination. 


THE END. 




A 





ADVERTISEMENTS. 


THE BEST 



fashing Compand 

EVER INVENTED. 

No Lady, Married or Sin- 
gle, Rich or Poor, House- 
keeping or Boarding, will 
be without it after testing 
its utility. 

Sold by all first-class 
Grocers, but beware of 
worthless imitations. 


MUNRO’S PUBLICATIONS. 

The Seaside Library 

pocket Eioiarionsr- 


270 The Wahdering Jew. By Eugene Sue. Parts I. and 

II., each 20 

279 Little Goldie. By Mrs. Sumner Hayden 20 

284 Boris. By “The Duchess” 10 

286 Deldee; or, The Iron Hand. By F. Warden 20 

330 May Blossom ; or, Between Two Loves. By Mar- 
garet Lee 20 

345 Madam. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

359 The Water- Witch. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

362 The Bride of Lammermoor. By Sir Walter Scott. . 20 


For sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, post- 
age free, on receipt of 12 cents for single numbers, and 25 cents for 
double numbers, by the publisher. Parties ordering by mail will 
please order by numbers. 

GEORGE MUNRO, Publisher, 

P. O. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vandewater Street. 


WHAT IS SAPOLIO? 


Tt is a solid, 
handsome cake 
of scouring soap, 
which has no 


equal for all^pleaning purposes except the laundry. To use it is to value it. 


fhat will Sapolio do? 


?s except 
Why, it will 


clea'n paint, make oil-clotbs bright, and 


hy, . 

give tho floors, tables and shelves a new appearance. 

It will take the grease off the dishes and off the pots and pans. 

You can scour the knives and forks with th and make the tin things shine 
brightly. The wash-basin, the bath-tub. eve^ the greasy kitcben sink, will be 
as clean as a new pin if you use SAPOLfO. One cake will prove all we 
say. Be a clever little housekeeper and try it. 

BEWARE OF IMITATIONS. 

~ " \*. ‘ ' . - b . ■ ■ 


MUNRO’S PUBLICATIONS. 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. —POCKET EDITION. 

LATEST ISSUES: 


378 Homeward Bound; or, The Chase. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

379 Home as Found. (Sequel to “ Home- 

ward Boutfd.”) By J. Fenimore 
Cooper 20 

380 Wyandotte ; or. The Hutted Knoll. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

381 The Red Cardinal. By Frances Elliot 10 

382 Three Sisters; or, Sketches of a 

Highly Original Family. By Elsa 
D'Esterre-Keeling 10 

383 Introduced to Society. By Hamilton 

Aide 1C 

384 On Horseback Through Asia Minor. 

By Capt. Fred Burnaby 20 

385 The Headsman; or. The Abbaye des 

Viguerons. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

386 Led Astray ; or, La Petite Comtesse.” 

By Octave Feuillet 10 

387 The Secret of the Cliffs. By Charlotte 

French 20 

388 Addie’s Husband ; or, Through Clouds 

to Sunshine. By the author of 
“ Love or Lands? - ’ 10 

389 Ichabod. By Bertha Thomas 10 

390 Mildred Tre van ion. “The Duchess” 10 

391 The Heart of Mid-Lothian. By Sir 

Walter Scott 20 

392 Peveril of the Peak. Sir Walter Scott 20 

393 The Pirate. Sir Walter Scott 20 

394 The Bravo. By J. Fenimore Cooper. 20 

395 The Archipelago on Fire. By Jules 

Verne 10 

396 Robert Ord’s Atonement. By Rosa 

Nouchette Carey .’ 20 


397 Lionel Lincoln ; or, The Leaguer of 


of Boston. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

398 Matt: A Tale of a Caravan. By Rob- 

ert Buchanan 10 

399 Miss Brown. By Vernon Lee .. 20 

400 The Wept of Wish-Tou-Wish. By J. 

Fenimore Cooper ... 20 

401 Waverley. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

402 Lilliesleaf; or, Passages in the Life of 

Mrs. Margaret Maitland of Sunny- 
side. By Mrs. Oliphant *. . 20 

403 An English Squire. C. R. Coleridge . 20 
t04 In Durance Vile, and Other Stories. 

By “ The Duchess ” .... 10 

405 My Friends and I. Edited by Julian 

Sturgis 10 

406 The Merchant’s Clerk. Samuel 

Warren 10 

407 Tylney Hall. By Thomas Hood 20 


408 Lester’s Secret. By Mary Cecil Hay 20 

409 Roy’s Wife. G. J. Whyte-Melville. . . 20 

410 Old Lady Mary. By Mrs. Oliphant. . 10 
111 A Bitter Atonement. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 20 

412 Some One Else. By B. M. Croker 20 

413 Afloat and Ashore. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

414 Miles Wallingford. (Sequel to “Afloat 

and Ashore.”) J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

415 The Ways of the Hour. By J. Feni- 

more Cooper ' 20 

416 Jack Tier; or, The Florida Reef. By 

J. Fenimore Cooper 20 


The above books are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage pre- 
paid. by the publisher, on receipt of 12 cents for single numbers, 17 cents for special numbers, and 
25 cents for double numbers. Parties wishing the Pocket Edition of TheSkaside Library must be 
careful to mention the Pocket Edition, otherwise the Ordinary Edition will be sent. Address, 

GEORGE MIJNKO, Publisher, 

P. O. Hoy 3751 . 17 lo 27 V a tidewater Street, New York. 


MUNRO’S PERIODICALS. 

THE NEW YORK MONTHLY FASHION BAZAR 

Price 25 Cents per Copy. By Subscription, $2,50 per year. 

THE NEW YORK MONTHLY FASHION BAZAR is for sale by all newsdealers, or 
will be sent, postage prepaid, for 25 cents per single copy. 

GEORGE MUNRO, Publisher, 

17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York. 


P. O. Box 3751 


THE CELEBRATED 



GRAND, SQUARE AND UPRIGHT 


FIRST PRIZE 

DIPLOMA. 

Centennial Exnibi 
tion, 1876; Montreal, 
1881 and 1882. 

The enviable po- 
sition Sohmer & 
Co. hold among 
American Piano 
Manufacturers is 
solely due to the 
merits of their in- 
struments. 



PIANOS. 

They are used 
in Conservato- 
ries, Schools and 
Seminaries, on ac- 
count of their su- 
perior tone and 
unequaled dura- 
bility. 

The SOHMER 
Piano is a special 
favorite with the 
leading musicians 
and critics. 


ARE AT PRESENT THE MOST POPULAR 

AND PREFERRED BY THE LEADING ARTISTS. 

SOHMER & CO., Manufacturers, No. 149 to 155 E. lift Street, N. Y. 


The New York Fireside Companion. 


THE MOST POPULAR PAPER IN THE UNION. 


IT CONTAINS 

Incomparably the Best Continued Stories, 

3DetectiT7-e Stories toy- “Old. SleiAtlr,” 

AND 

The Richest Variety of Sketches and Literary Miscellany. 


TERMS:— The New York Fireside Companion will be sent for one year, on receipt 
of $3: two copies for $6. Getters-up of clubs can afterward add single conics at $2.50 
each. We will be responsible for remittances sent in Registered Letters or by Post- 
office Money Orders. Postage free. Specimen copies sent free. 

GEORGE MUNRO, Publisher, 

P. O. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Ynndewater Street, New York. 


. 




' ■ •' *■ ‘ ■ 






















* 






















t s 

















» 










* 




























































I • 








»* ■*» 







































s 
































> 




















































. 





' 


































* . 


/ • 




V. 


































. 




■ • 




. - 





- 

' 


. 







































































































J 




























































o c 3 

s* r# ^ 



r * ^ -clJ^ 

_ & <b 'OvK*, <$> _ 

* * * 0 / ^ V * * * 0 A *tfr V * Y * 0 A 

V <2 S> *_ HO. y-. r 5 * *_ ^ ^ ~ ~ * 

o v t/> ,A\ r "A\\M/v%o " A\VM//%, c V ^rw 

tP « \ v * \$gv///Ji ^ tP *V ^ /. <P * 



O c 3 -* 

* r# ^ "' 



' s '**',, < 



°* \ 

c , V v » - 1 * 0 /■ 

-. •w .*m f . v 


t> <r 


o c 3 

„* ,# ^ V 

s' A b <v *0 , . s' A">' 

fP . s' ’* '/, <!>. rP' s'*’ 




W * 



° yv, ^ 


^ 3 * * 

V v * 0 ^ ~ ^ " \) V * 0 / ^ y 0 * 

S *. C -*> ^ ^ ^ 

Qr JN J .An X^> AV ■%• 

, A k//A ° S/>„ <<v „ j 


° ^s s ^ 

s* r# *■ 




/** s* A° „ ■ ^ ^**s s A° 

0 ° -%> o 0 ' s'^.\ o° . ' V ‘ 



^ 0 

* \ 
■>," .<&■ Os * 



*P S ~ K 
: 


H o. -* 


* oS- 


r •„ 

o * 



c5> ^ 


o rS A 

* -V x 




X y 0 c x 




,# s ^ % 

S ' 0 ,.., A & .. 

J . V s '+ r0‘ 





^ vt! <^: • T7 "> 6 : ...,: v ; * * T '>°" . . : .<:* ' 


* <r 



.S S ^> 

.^y 


t *> <» > ” < ^s CV S ^ ^ * * f\V t $ -t* ,. n^,* 

s s ^ 7 /y <>> ry, ** V6 r^ v s s 



4 < 


0 * X * 


^ v'-,»-», *»-.,%/••** NX.’ 

% A * %. .* *VVa v % & 

^n^v ~ JSs^A//A ° 




v> 


->* r# ^ 


> * , * s jb _,* ** j c s ^\y 

V^/% ** 0°^.^”'*.^ ** 

^C$ 




H ol 




\ 


-4 <1 N <-> 





^ <xv 


. t * 


tV* 


\ * n ^ 




